


The Dawn and Dusk of Vatredas

by BuddyBuddyPalBuddy



Category: Mianite (Minecraft Series), Mianite - Fandom, Mianite Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Blood, Fan-made Season 3, Hurt/Comfort, Major Wounds, Marriage, Mianite season 3 - Freeform, Mianite-3-Unofficial, Multi, Oppression, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Poor Life Choices, Rebellion, Season 3 AU, Self-Destructive Tendencies, cursing, mianite - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2020-11-01 22:03:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 72
Words: 54,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20521994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BuddyBuddyPalBuddy/pseuds/BuddyBuddyPalBuddy
Summary: It has been four years since the collapse of Ruxomar. Four years of falling through an infinite nothing. Four years of looking out into the abyss and hoping to see a sign, to see anything, only to have their hopes dashed with each day.When a flash of white peels away their shackles to the void, it seems home is farther away than ever before.(A fan take on what Mianite Season 3 could have been)





	1. Falling with Friends

Time flowed differently in the void between worlds, moving too fast for any of them to keep track of. Minutes were hours, hours were days, days were years.

At least, that’s what Sparklez told himself. Time had to be going differently. Even though Wag and Martha had been keeping track of the days (with a clock and paper, then, when the paper ran out, Waglington’s arms and back) one by one, there had to be something wrong. Four years.

Four.

The rush of wind over his ears was a sickeningly familiar white noise, the feeling of falling no longer a stomach twisting rush, just a reminder of everything that had gone wrong.

Martha and Wag talked in hushed voices almost all the time without stop, unless one got hungry, or started crying. Jericho was gripping a rope, knuckles white with the effort he was holding onto it with, Sonja on the other end. She’d been exploring lately, trying to find the mirages she saw in the nothingness around them. She never did. Jericho muttered prayers to himself, prayers to Mianite. Not the one that had betrayed them, but the one that he had known in their first world. Mianite have mercy.

Andor never sat still. Always fluttering about, writing, singing, picking arguments or watching them from the sidelines. Sparklez saw nothing but a caged bird, singing to nobody and beating its wings against the bars. The worst part was he recognized his influence on Andor.

Mot, Dianite, and the Deviser all worked together, trying to make devices that made Sparklez head spin and stomach flip. Half of the things they said didn’t make sense to him and the other half worried him beyond worry. Tom sometimes popped up and annoyed them.

Speaking of Tom…

“Sparklez,” he said, falling by his side. “Where do you think the next place we'll land will be at?”

Sparklez sighed, knowing exactly where this conversation would be going.

“Hopefully somewhere nice. A nice forest, maybe.”

“I want it to be a city!” Tom proclaimed, “Lots of people, lots of noise… maybe we all could be mobsters.”

“I’m not a monster,” Sparklez snapped.

Tom looked at him funny.

“…Mobster, buddy. I said mobsters. I think that would be fun. Don’t you, Jericho?”

Jericho looked up from the rope, his eyes red.

“I want to go home, Tom,” he said, voice raw and thick.

Tom rolled his pitch black eyes, spinning through the void.

“Come on! We probably will never go back. We’ll land somewhere, find some people, steal their shit, make a new home! Like last time!”

“Last time,” Jericho growled, “Mianite was a dick.”

“Mianite’s always been a dick.”

Sparklez let himself fall a little farther, out of the way. Here we go again.

“No, he isn’t. He was always orderly and good-“

“And a prude. Dianite can fuck,” Tom joked.

“I want to go back to the first world! I don’t give a shit about cities and mobsters or whatever the hell you're dreaming of!”

“It’s better than this!” Tom screamed, “Just falling! I’m sick of falling! How long have we been falling?”

“Four years,” Wag and Martha chimed in bone-chilling unison.

Sparklez covered his ears, letting himself fall a little further, curling in on himself, further…

Suddenly, light. White, blinding light that was warm on his back. He flipped himself around, basking in the light, the tear in the void, hearing nothing but rushing wind around him and the silence of the others, realizing what they were seeing. Tom let out an excited whoop, and Sparklez closed his eyes.

A rush of white and pain, then nothing.


	2. Tea and a Realization

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They wake up in a new world to the smell of cinnamon.
> 
> Well, not everyone.

Sparklez woke to the smell of cinnamon. Rich, sharp cinnamon that made his mouth water. The air around him and the blanket he was under was warm, so, so warm, a comforting weight. And he wasn’t falling. No, there was a bed underneath his back. Not a soft one, not even close, but steady. Someone was saying something. He inhaled, not sure if he was willing to open his eyes, but then let them slip open.

His suspicions were correct. He was, in fact, in a bed. A little cot, right next to another little cot, and another, all haphazardly pushed together. Mot was laid on the one to his left, snoring just a little, and Martha to his right, mumbling in her sleep. That’s what that was.

“Ah. You’re awake,” a kind voice said. Sparklez sat up, the owner of the voice outing a cup of tea in his hands. It was warm, almost hot in her grasp, served in a little teacup with flowers painted on the side, smelling heavily of cinnamon. That’s where that smell was coming from…

He looked up from his tea. A massive, muscular woman crouched over a cot, pressing her hand to one of their foreheads. Her grey hair was braided over one shoulder in a simple plait, a brown apron covering the front of what looked like a light blue dress.

“All your other friends are asleep. This one, with the suit-“

“Tom?”

“That’s his name?” She asked. Sparklez nodded. “Alright. Tom hit a tower hard. Got gored by one of the spikes, like he was attacked by a bull. The rest of your friends are alright, though. And Tom will be too. I promise, Mr…”

“Sparklez,” She walked over to him, and they shook hands. “And you are?”

“Ladia. Owner of the Cinnamon Grove Inn, where you are right now.”

“Why are you taking care of us, then?”

“I used to be a medic in my youth.”

He sipped his tea. Ah, yes. Sugar and cinnamon and something else, the first thing he’d eaten for four years besides cold rations. Ianite be praised.

Sparklez sat up. There was a bookshelf with tons of books, a fire in the fireplace with a pot over it. More tea, probably. On a worn, wooden table, there were 8 teacups, all painted with the same floral pattern. One for himself, Tucker, Wag, Martha, Dianite, Mot, Deviser, Andor…

He recounted, panic coursing through him.

“Did you have a cup of tea?”

“No,” Ladia answered.

Sparklez stood, shaky on his feet, and looked over the cots. Yes, there was Tucker, curled in on himself and clutching a rope that went from his fist, down his body, making it look like there was a snake under his covers, then ending at his feet…

…in a charred, frayed strand.

“Did you cut that rope?” Sparklez said in a rush.

“No, he was holding it like that. I couldn’t pry it out of his hands. Is something wrong?”

“Yes,” he whispered. “Yes, there’s something very, very wrong.

Sonja wasn’t with them when they fell, she had been off exploring. He gulped.

They’d lost Sonja.


	3. An Argument

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sonja's gone.
> 
> No one is too happy about that.

It took an hour to get everyone up, but Sparklez insisted on it. Ladia watched, sipping tea at one of the worn tables. He shook everyone awake, filled with a nervous energy he hadn’t felt before. Well, cross nervous energy because someone could still be stuck in the void or dead or lost somewhere off the feelings list.

He didn’t shake Tom awake, too scared to disturb the white bandages wrapped around his stomach. He looked helplessly to Martha, who was awake, Waglington in her arms. Silently, she stood, crossing the room to Tom’s cot.

“What happened to him?”

“Gored by a fence post, darling. I’ve done everything I could,” Ladia said. Gently, Martha placed her hand on Tom’s head. With a whispered word, Tom was awake, grimacing with pain, eyes wild and flickering around the room.

“The fuck is this?”

“A new world, Tom,” Sparklez said, trying to sound comforting.

“No. I mean,” He gestured to the bandages around his torso, “This.”

“Your shit got fucked,” Jericho wisely decreed from one bed over.

“You okay, boyo?” Dianite asked.

Tom nodded.

Tucker sat up, looking at the rope in his hand. Sparklez took a deep breath.

“Where’s Sonja?”

An uncomfortable silence filled the room. Sparklez looked at the floor. Dark wood, a bit scuffed from feet and pushing the beds closer together.

“Tucker…” Andor tried to say.

“Shut up. Sparklez, Where’s Sonja?”

Sparklez wiped his eyes.

“I don’t know,” he whispered.

“What was that?” Jericho shouted, standing up from his bed. Sparklez looked up, aware and ashamed of the tears threatening to rush down his face.

“I don’t know! Jericho, the rope, she was out in the void when we fell. She’s probably here, but I don’t know where!”

“You lost her?!?”

“No, I didn’t-“

“Yes, you did! You’re the one who led us here in the first place, oh Champion of Ianite-“

“I have no say in where we end up!”

“Yeah, you do! You fucked us over with the pirates, then with all the universe falling apart!”

“You’re blaming me for that?!?”

“Yes, I am!”

Ladia stood.

“Both of you. I will not tolerate fighting here. If you’re feeling well enough to fight, then you’re well enough to go wander the village a bit. Get some fresh air, orient yourselves. I…” She looked around a little, eyes finally settling on Tom, “…Need to go. Best of luck.”

Jericho followed Ladia out of the room, silent besides their footsteps on the stairs. Sparklez was frozen still, feet locked to the ground, hyper-aware of all the eyes on him.

“Other-Alyssa’s gone?” Mot asked, voice small.

“Her name is Sonja.” Tom snapped, cringing with pain.

Sparklez turned away, closing his eyes.

“If this is another world,” Dianite said, “Then there would be other versions of us.” He looked to the door where Ladia had left. “Do you think she was one of us?”

Sparklez wanted to scream, shout that it doesn’t matter because they’re in some new, strange place, another universe with different gods that they’d somehow destroy, and end up falling again, and again, and again.

“I don’t know,” he said instead, “I really don’t know.”


	4. First Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andor ventures out into the city.

Andor was restless the moment he woke up. There was a new world, new people, new air, new flowers, new trees, new things- a new place to explore, to spread the word of Ianite, to make a place for himself.

Jericho returned three hours after he left, proclaiming the cities name was Vatredas, that it was surrounded by farmland, and that he had almost gotten shot while looking for Sonja. Ladia returned four hours after she left, saying nothing, but making enough rabbit stew to feed a small army.

Later that night, while Sparklez silently fumed over Jericho and Sonja, and the others got more sleep (besides Dianite, who was playing with Mot’s hair while he slept) Andor ran to the nearest window and peered out. The streets were lined with so many people, merchants at their stands, people walking down the street, performers and little campfires and so, so much…

“Sparklez, Dia,” he said, “I’m going outside.”

Dianite looked up from Mot’s hair, Sparklez from his fuming.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Dianite waved his hand flippantly.

“Let the boy go, Sparkly-Loins. It’s been four years since he’s talked to anyone but us.”

“It’s not been that long-“

“Just let him go.”

Sparklez hung his head, back in his fuming, and Andor swung the door open, running to the stairs and sliding down banister, wings fluttering to keep his balance, stopping to look around the main room of the Inn. It was gorgeous. Paintings hung from the walls. There were herbs drying behind the bar, and the bar was stacked with alcohol of all sorts. Maybe if he got any money he’d try a drink. Patrons sat at all the tables, chattering and drinking, filling the room with sound. Andor leaned his head back, closing his eyes and taking it all in.

Then, he was off like a shot out the front door, into the bustling city. Almost immediately he was knocked into the wall by a gaggle of rich women, their massive petticoats forcing him to slam his back to the front wall of the inn to avoid brushing against them. He couldn’t stop staring at them, the fine fabric of their skirts. They just barely brushed the cobblestone streets. He pushed himself off the wall in a giddy haze, stumbling through the crowd of people.

He folded his wings tightly to his body, running to the nearest performer- a person playing guitar and singing some strange, beautiful song. Tears welled in his eyes. For the first time in four years, he heard music. Overwhelmed, he turned away, walking head first into the massive crowd of people.

The smell of spice and cooking street food permeated the air. Merchant stands were all over, creating a channel of people stopping and going, a flow of chaos all around. Andor smiled. If Dianite was the same even after the fall, he’d have all these people in the palm of his hand within the week. Smiling, he pushed his way out of the crowd, into an open space.

There, a temple of marble and strange, purple rock stood. The smile disappeared from Andor’s face. A temple to Ianite.

He’d heard the stories from Tucker and Tom, how different their gods were. Merciful Mianite turned into a god of selfishness and solitude, and ferocious Dianite turned into a businessman. Even Sparklez acknowledged that his lady had changed between worlds.

Without his knowing, his feet had carried him inside the temple. Yes, it was devoted to Ianite. He heard her name over and over again in prayers, chanted through the incense thick air by the people inside. The ceiling was low, and seemed to keep on getting lower, as if it was closing in on him. He fell to his knees.

Above him, a statue depicted Ianite. Her hair in many complicated braids, face harsh and strong as iron. One arm was extended heavenwards, a huge bird frozen in motion as it landed on her arm. The other clutched a balanced scale by her hip. She was adorned with obsidian and ender pearls, gold and diamonds, all sorts of precious things.

That wasn’t his Ianite.

There was a man standing next to him, giving him an odd look.

“First time here?”

Andor looked up. The man had a scar running along the bridge of his nose, hair braided back into a ponytail that sat at the base of his neck. His clothes were simple, purple robes, the same color as his eyes. But sticking out of them in two slits were huge, tawny wings, brushing the ground like the rich woman’s skirts. Andor gaped at them, suddenly at a loss for words.

“Yes, I’m… new in town.”

“Is that all?”

“Oh, it gets worse.”

The man laughed. It was a pleasant laugh, filling the air like the heavy incense.

“I’m Rha. It’s nice to meet you.”

They shook hands, Andor trying to hide his trembling.

“I’m Andor. I’ve… worshiped Ianite for a while, I’m very close to her.”

Rha smiled.

“Ah. You’re an executioner. I could tell by the wings.”

“Huh? No. I’m a… I’m just a traveler.”

“Shame,” Rha said, staring at the statue of Ianite, “You’d be a good one. It’s clear you’re as passionate about balance as She would be. Ianite be blessed.”

“Ianite be blessed,” Andor mimicked. “What’s an executioner?”

“Oh. They execute Ianite's will onto the world. They are her wings, her sword, and her scales. They’re in very close contact with the goddess. I used to be an executioner-“

“What happened?”

“Busted my knee,” Rha said, smoothly. “But yes, they’re very close to the goddess. The only person closer is me.” He paused, jolting as if shocked, “Mercy me. Where are my manners? I am Rha, priest to Ianite.”

Andor nodded, dumbly. Maybe that would be a good thing, being close to Ianite.

He stood, letting his wings unfurl.

“Tell me more about Ianite, please.”

Rha smiled.

“I will, gladly.” He sat down in front of the statue, Andor quickly joining him. “And Andor?”

“Yes?”

“Welcome to Vatredas.”


	5. A Discussion of Doubles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dianite and Jordan wonder about alternates.

“What do you think our doubles are like?”

Sparklez looked up at Dianite. He was still petting Mot’s hair like he was a cat, red skin less intense in the dark.

“I don’t really care.”

“But don’t you wonder?” He mused. “I think Jericho’s double will be a little bitch. Runs in the… family? Can I say that? The Jericho-Jeriah bitch bloodline?”

Sparklez laughed despite himself.

“I don’t know, Dia. I’m worried, though.”

“I’m sorry, mate. About Sonja?”

“No. I mean, yes, but so much more than just that…” he looked pathetically back to the blanket, realizing he’d spilled a little tea on the sheets. He brought it to his nose. Ah, yes, it still smelled like cinnamon.

“I’m worried,” Sparklez continued, “That my Lady won’t be my Lady. That she’ll be someone completely different. I’ll still follow her like I always have, but… it scares me.”

“Scares me too,” Dianite admitted, “I don’t want to know what the me in this universe is like. Probably a nasty bastard, like the one in y’all’s original universe.”

“He was a bastard. Runs in the family.”

Dianite covered his mouth and laughed, Mot not even stirring against him.

“Speaking of bastards-“

“Tom will be better in the morning. It’s always hard the first few days.”

“What are you two talking about?”

The both of them looked up to see Wag, sleepy eyed and drowsy, sit up from bed. His hood was down, revealing his face. Pale, with the two signature lines running down from his eyes. Sparklez looked away.

“Our doubles.”

Wag scoffed.

“Fuck, really? I just had a dream I was choking myself to death.”

Dianite and Sparklez gave him a concerned look.

“No, not like that. A clone of myself was choking me, and I wake up to you two talking about doubles,” he drawled, voice thick with sleep.

Dianite said, ever so eloquently, “I bet your double’s a prick.”

The three of them chuckled, Waglington fidgeting uneasily.

“Well, there’s no way in telling who’s double is who.”

“Maybe Sonja’s thauminomiconaconamajiggy?”

“That gold purple thing? No, it changes from person to person. Besides, might not work here,” Waglington reasoned.

The unsaid truth hung heavily in the air, an anvil suspended by silk thread.

Sparklez cleared his throat.

“I’m going to sleep. I think we all should.”

“Except me,” Dianite said, “I've had enough sleep to last a millennia.”

Sparklez nodded and laid down in his bed, guilt crashing down onto him.

Four years, just to lose one of their own the first time they had hope. What if it was his fault? Everything? And he kept on leading them into more and more trouble?

He tossed and turned all night, hoping for sleep to come and take him back to a place where the worst thing that could happen was his house burning down.


	6. The Champion

It was raining.

Tom jolted up, sleep fading away and leaving nothing but pain. He clasped his hand over his torso, gritting his teeth to try not to scratch it or pull the bandage off. Looking around, nobody else was awake. Even Dianite was slumped against the wall, eyes shut and breathing steady. He shakily stood, hand unmoving from his torso, and staggered over to the window.

The sky was grey, the streets devoid of life. Each pocket between the cobbles carried a puddle that rippled with every strike of rain. Suddenly, someone ran down the street- two someones, actually, throwing open the door to the Inn. Now very much awake and very, very nervous, Tom looked around the room. On one of the tables, there was a knife. Small, but sharp. He took it, unsteadily walking to the door.

Down the hallway, there was a line of locked doors. There seemed to be another hallway off of that.

Voices came from downstairs.

He gripped the knife as hard as he could, silently making his way down the stairs. There was one man in a purple robe that had goddamn wings.

And then, behind him, stood Andor.

“Andor?” Tom asked. The both of them whirled around.

“Don’t tell Sparklez I was out this late.”

“I won’t,” he promised, “but what time even is it? And who’s this bitch?”

The other man cleared his throat.

“It’s seven in the morning, and my name is Rha, priest to Ianite.”

Tom nodded, not letting go of the knife.

“Is he chill?”

“Yeah,” Andor said, “He’s, uh, pretty chill.”

“And you were out with him? All night?”

“Talking about our Lady, yes.”

“God. You sound like Sparklez.”

Rha piped up, asking; “Are you okay, sir?”

Tom scoffed. “Don’t call me sir. Call me Tom, Champion to Dianite.”

“You’re Dianite’s champion?” Rha whispered.

“In one universe, yeah. Killed him in another.”

Rha looked suddenly confused, but Andor quickly grabbed Tom, leaning him on his shoulders.

“Oh, he doesn’t know what he’s saying. Blood loss has gotten to him. He’ll be fine, but I should, er, take him back upstairs.”

“Here, let me help-“

Suddenly, Rha was by his side, hoisting his arm up as well. A rush of pain went through Tom, making him shout and convulse between them. The next thing he knew he was laid on one of the tables, Andor and Rha both leaning over him. Rha started praying, hands clasped over the bandages. Tom was about to say something, maybe “I’m good, it won’t work, you’ve got the wrong god, mate”, when, in a rush of crackling red light, the pain faded away. His skin felt like it was being pulled. Rha took off the bandages.

Underneath, nothing but a scar.

“What did you do?” Tom asked.

Rha took a step back.

“I prayed to Ianite.”

“And she fixed this?”

“No. It wasn’t her. It felt… different. She was there, but it wasn’t her…”

Tom sat up, clasping Rha on the shoulder.

“I don’t care who it was. Thank you, man. You unfucked my shit. Now Andor- tell me all about this place.”

Andor pulled up a chair, still looking a little stunned, and began talking. Rha followed, Tom staying sat on the table. They talked and talked until the grey sky broke up, revealing familiar blue underneath. He stepped outside, either unaware or not caring that he wasn’t wearing a shirt, that his hair was a mess, or that the scar had shifted into the shape of an odd sigil.

He shut his eyes, tilting his head back.

The sun, oh, he had missed it.


	7. A Little Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sonja wakes up in the woods, alone. Except, not.

Something was cooking. The cracking of grease popped harshly against the sound of the breeze rustling leaves, the air rich with the smell of grease and frying meat. The only thing stronger than that was the throbbing in her head, and around her waist. A bit of rope laid by her side. Jericho must’ve let go of her when they fell.

Sonja sat up, disoriented and confused, looking around her. She was in a tent, red fabric letting in only a little bit of sun. The flap was open. Quietly, she twisted so she could look out of the tent. There was another tent, smaller and blue, and a lone, hooded figure was cooking meat over a roaring fire. They turned around, Sonja unable to see any detail of their face except for their mouth.

“Ah, you’re finally awake,” they said, voice carrying a heavy accent. Sonja stepped out of the tent, taking steady breaths to not be overwhelmed by the immense amount of life around them. Trees, grasses, even the smoking branches on the fire. All of it, alive.

“Yeah, I guess I am.” She looked around. “Where am I? Are the others okay?”

“The others?” They shook their head, “I’m sorry, you’re the only one I found. Maybe your friends are in Vatredas.”

Sonja blinked. “Vatre-What?”

“The city. I was, er, what’s the word- called to go there just today. Just me, and, well, now you.”

“Called? By who?”

“My father,” they said, tone suddenly serious. “He says there’s someone he wants me to meet. My father’s in prison, so communication is hard, so I really, really must meet him. I will be going speedily to Vatredas.”

“Is there anything else? Besides Vatredas, I mean?” Sonja asked, desperate. They shook their head.

“I’m sorry. There’s nothing between my home and Vatredas. Just roads and, er, wild lands.”

Nothing but wilderness. That couldn’t be. Even back in Ruxomar there was more than wilderness- there was Steve’s farm, just outside of the city. Oh, Steve…

She had been outside of the group while falling. So, they were probably far, far away.

Maybe they were there. Silently, she prayed to Mianite for their safety.

“I’ll go with you,” Sonja decided. The figure smiled, turning their attention back onto the frying pan.

“Good, good. My name is Lev. We’ll be in the city in week. Maybe two weeks. Now sit down- you look like you need a good meal.”

Sonja lowered herself to the ground by the fire, basking in the warmth of the flame, the smell of the meat. Even sitting on the ground she still felt like she was falling, alone with nothing but mirages of hope to sustain her.

This time, though, she was traveling to something real.

Falling, traveling- really, what was the difference?


	8. Wonder and Blood

Ladia walked through the door, having to duck down a little to fit all the way through. She looked at the beds, then at the people in the room, realizing that two were missing. The winged boy and the one that was gored. Well, the one with the wings had been gone for a while, but the gored man- maybe he died, was taken off. No, Ladia realized, peeking out the window, he was just basking in the sun like a lunatic without a shirt on. She sighed, suddenly reminded of her youth.

The fallen travelers had made themselves at home- a good thing. They were uneasy, losing a friend would do that, but not scared. Or, if they were scared, they weren’t showing it.

They sat in a semi circle of chairs, watching two people who apparently had the floor. The cherry-red skinned man was raising his hands, drawing random shapes in the air, then holding his palms out. Whatever conversation they were having must’ve been intense, what with all the gestures. The pale haired woman did the same. The rope-holder was frustrated with this, stood, and pulled an ornate knife from his belt. Ladia watched, eyes widening, as he dragged it along his shoulder, making a deep scratch.

“What are you doing?” She shrieked. They all turned around or looked up, noticing her. She tried to ignore the strange looks they were giving her. The rope-holder was bleeding profusely. He stared at his hands, stunned.

“Uh,” he eloquently said. Ladia rushed over to him, examining the cut. It was deep, but thin. It would need stitches.

“What is it with you people?” She asked.

“Those who fall from the sky?” The one with the dumb name asked, face hidden by his hood.

“Fools. Go get me a needle, thread. Gauze. And a towel. It’s all in one of the cabinets.

The one with the flower crown stood, the mopey boy with the sunglasses joining him in searching.

“I’m not a fool, lady,” he said, trying to jerk away from her hands.

“My name is Ladia, not Lady. But to be fair, I don’t remember yours. This will need stitches. Why would you do that?” She pressed down at the wound, keeping pressure with her bare hands.

“His name is Jericho,” the one with the stupid name said.

He looked down at his hands. “I wanted to see if I could still do my magic.”

Oh. Her stomach twisted.

She leaned closer to him, whispering.

“I used to be like you once. Meddling in things too powerful for my own good. I lost people to magic. Friends, family. My own son. If you’re going to be foolish enough to mess with this shit-“ she pressed down just a little too hard, making him wince, “you do it far, far away from here. You go anywhere, anywhere but here. And if I ever see you or any of your friends do anything like that again, you’ll be out on your ass in the street quicker than you can say abraca-fuckin’-dabra. Say ow if you understand.”

“Ow,” he whimpered. Finally, mopey-sunglasses man gave her the things she needed. She grabbed her flask from where it was hidden in her coat.

“That for you?” Jericho asked, strained.

“No, it’s for you.”

She poured the clear alcohol onto a rag, then pressed it to the cut.

He wailed, dropping his knife to the ground, but she was certain whatever pain he was going through would be better than anything magic would ever bring him.

“Martha,” the red one- Dianite?-whispered to the pale haired woman, “I think she’s Steve’s alternate.”

Whatever that meant, she didn’t care. Her mind was elsewhere, cleaning up another mess.


	9. Devotion

Jericho left only a minute after the final stitch was put in his arm. He grabbed the clean, white shirt Ladia had let him borrow, clean and white as the gauze around his shoulder, and stormed out. Martha watch him bump into Tom, still shirtless and basking in the sun, stop, talk, then shove him hard. She didn’t care.

They had been experimenting with their powers for a while before Ladia had walked in. Dianite had nothing, same with the rest of them, and Martha felt… drained. Like there was something blocking her off from her powers. Maybe anger. At the world, for being so cruel, at Steve for leaving her so soon, and Sparklez and Dianite for letting Andor leave.

But then, he was coming upstairs, an awkward smile on his face.

“Heeeeey, auntie. Sparklez. Dia.”

“You were out late,” Sparklez said in a surprisingly strong voice.

“Yeah. About that. I know about this worlds Ianite. And I met someone. His name is Rha-“

“Awh, someone got a crush?” Mot teased. Andor flushed.

“No- this is more important than a crush. He has wings. Like I do. They’re huge.”

“And?”

“He’s priest to Ianite. She’s… very different here,” Andor took a deep breath, “She’s a Warlord. A guardian. A being of pure balance. Raptor-Keeper and End-Mother.”

Sparklez stood.

“How do you know all this?” He asked, bewildered.

“I went to her temple last night. Met the priest. Yeah.”

“I want to see it,” Sparklez said firmly. "Take me.”

“Me too,” Martha said. Waglington might’ve opened his mouth to say something, but Andor couldn’t tell.

“Alright then,” Andor said, “let’s go.”

He led them out of the room, through busy streets and claustrophobic markets, the two of them following him like ducklings. He had had hope when he found the temple, but the more and more Rha talked, the more and more he doubted this Ianite. Especially with the business with Tom. Thankfully, he’d gotten Rha to leave without any more questions.

Soon, they were there, in front of the temple. It looked different in daylight. The three of them were frozen in front.

Sparklez was the first to walk in, silent and stunned. The incense thick air struck them hard, drawing them forward into the center of the temple, the great statue of Ianite in there. The temple was empty except for them, the heavy silk banners and tapestries hung between the marble pillars keeping their voices from echoing. Martha felt a chill run down her spine. Infinite space but no echo- just like the void.

Martha stared up at the statue. At its cold, sharp face, the tight, complexly braided hair. The giant bird with golden wings. All the beads and braids and jewels. She looked in the statues eyes.

“That’s not my mother,” Martha whispered.

“Yes it is,” Sparklez said.”

“No it isn’t, Sparklez. This is not her.”

“It’s still Ianite,” Sparklez insisted.

“I wanted to be closer to Ianite here,” Andor admitted, “but when Rha told me about her… I think it’s best we stay away. Her followers are dangerous.”

“She’s still the goddess of balance,” Sparklez said, “she’s still my Lady, and I will be devoted to her no matter what.”

“Sparklez. She has executioners. Doesn’t that sound sketchy? She imprisoned Dianite and Mianite. That’s why there aren’t any temples to them here. Rha told me all that last night. He said she imprisoned them both to keep the balance of the world… that doesn’t sound like balance to me. It sounds like stagnation.”

“I don’t care.”

“You should. You could get hurt.”

“I’m used to it by now.”

Martha and Andor made eye contact, then watched fearfully as Sparklez inched closer to the statue, kneeling at its feet.

“Sparklez,” Andor begged, “Get back up. She’s not the same-“

“Like I said, she’s still the goddess of balance. She’s still my lady.”

Andor’s face flushed red.

“She’s not!” He howled, fighting against Martha’s sudden hold on him, keeping him from lunging at Sparklez. “Are you blind under those glasses? She’s not your lady anymore! She’s different, and I thought you’d be fucking smart enough to know! And I thought-“

“Thought what? That I could fix it? Make it better? I can’t do anything. Jericho’s right.”

Andor blinked, stunned. “That has nothing to do with this.”

“Jericho’s right,” he repeated, ignoring him and staring up into Ianite's cold, marble eyes. “This, all of this, is my fault. If I had been stronger, smarter, I would’ve been able to keep all the bad things that have happened from happening. Blowing up the taint. Ignoring all the threats to the world. Not working hard enough to get us back home. Even before all that, with the pirates and- I have to make it up to Ianite, somehow. Maybe leave a world better than I’ve found it, for once.”

“Surely, you don’t mean that.” Martha said. Sparklez took off his sunglasses, setting them in front of the statue. He turned his head to face them, eyes red.

“She said she would see me again, and I want to be worth seeing.” He rubbed his eyes. “Please. Leave me alone. I need to think.”

Andor reached out to him, Martha grabbing his shoulder and giving him a look that said 'don’t.'

“Let him grieve,” Martha said.

“He’s had four fucking years to grieve!”

“Andor, so have you. Are you over it yet? Andor, are you alright?”

The fight went out of Andor in a rush, and he slumped against Martha, crying. Martha wrapped an arm around his shoulders, slowly walking him out of the temple.”

They left Sparklez, weeping, at the feet of Ianite’s statue.


	10. Meanwhile

Tom watched Martha, Andor and Sparklez leave, still on the ground from where Jericho pushed him. What was his deal? Sure, Sonja was gone, but that was nothing to be mad about. They’d find her, and things would work out as they always had. For now, he was basking in his freedom like a snake in the sun, staring at the blue sky and bright sun, the life all around him, everything. All the strange looks he got from passerby was just a bonus.

He noticed the sigil about ten minutes after Sparklez and the others left, because his mind went from Sparklez (a typical topic in the thoughts of Tom) to Ianite, to Rha, to that weird thing that had happened that morning. Then, he looked down at himself and there, bam, the sigil stood proudly against his skin.

It was a strange, curled design, flower petals curling over where he was struck, then a knife piercing the heart of the blossom. The blade of the knife was carved with odd looking symbols. He whistled. Alright, that was pretty cool. But what would’ve caused it? Oh. Red sparkles while healing. Dianite.

Dianite be fucking praised!!!

Suddenly giddy, hopeful, and overjoyed all at once, he clasped his hands together. He’d never been the praying type, but this Dianite was the answering type, it seemed, so why not try?

“Dianite. Hey, bro. Hi. I’m new here. My name’s Tom, and I’ve been your champion a few times in different universes. Ignore the fact I killed you in one. Anyways, uh. Thanks for fixing that cut for me. It really meant a lot and was honestly pretty cool. My other friends are here…” his mind wandered.

“…there’s this boy. His name is Jordan, but everyone calls him Sparklez. Or Captain. I’m scared he’s going to get himself hurt chasing after Ianite this time, since if Mianite can be a dick, then Ianite can, too, right? I don’t want him getting hurt, ya know. Could you keep him safe? And my other friends safe? Especially Sonja- we don’t know where she is. Thanks. I’m Tom, by the way. Shit. Already said that. Um.”

He waited, hearing nothing but footsteps and the whistling of wind.

Slowly, he unclasped his hands, suddenly feeling really, really dumb. But he had to hope. This Dianite could be good, chaotic, but not murderous. Not wanting to hurt his friends, but not a stuffy businessman. He settled his hand on the skin of the sigil.

All he really could do was hope. Hope, and keep everyone’s spirits up. It was no fun if everyone was sad, now was it?

He stood from his spot against the wall, went inside, grabbed a shirt, and left the Inn. There was a whole new world, bright and clean, that he needed to explore.

Maybe he could still be a mobster.


	11. Song of Solitude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ladia prays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to @syndianites on tumblr for their beautiful art of Ladia!

Ladia watched the world from the roof of the Inn, just barely able to peer over the wall surrounding the city. Wheat grew in neat rows, potatoes close by, a huge grove of apple trees obscuring the horizon. She faced away from the mango trees- the sight of them and the magic that kept them warm and alive made her sick. Oh, those travelers, what were they thinking…

The only one she thought had something close to sense was the pale haired woman- Mara. No, that’s wrong- Martha was her name. Maybe the one that reeked of intelligence and oil, Deviser something, but he hadn’t said anything since they fell.

Silently, she pulled a small case from her bag. She assembled the metal parts inside, proudly holding her flute in her hand. She blew a bit of air across the mouthpiece, letting that single note warble and shift into a song she knew he loved. It was one of the first she ever played for him. And even if he wasn’t close enough to hear, she sent her thoughts his way.

“I’m keeping them safe, like you asked me to,” she thought, “I’m lucky for you to have blessed me with your strength. I could hardly carry all of them. But I could. It was like being back on the field, carrying all them.”

The song reached a high note, and descended down its scale with order and grace.

“That Jericho boy worries me. His time away has changed him, I think. He reminds me too much of my boy.”

Her finger slipped, missing a note, disrupting the clean rhythm of the song. She tried to correct by changing the key, but her fingers were fumbling, shaking and unsure.

She lowered it to her lap, panting. There was no doubt he could hear her, but what if he wasn’t listening? He wasn’t merciful- anyone who thought the gods were merciful were fooling themselves- but he was kind. Caring. And undeniably there.

She tightened her grip around the flute.

Mianite be praised.


	12. Interlude 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wag takes a moment to think. Or panic, depending on how you look at it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interludes will be shorter pieces, maybe even written in different ways- poems, script, etc. it’s to keep me from getting burnout.

Wag stared at his hands. He was alone in the bathroom. Originally, the plan was to wash all the tally marks from his skin, erase all the reminders of the four years of falling. But now, he was there to calm down, back against the door. Frozen.

They’d been experimenting with magic, seeing if anyone had anything left. The first attempt, nothing. When Martha came back, a weeping Andor by her side, he tried again, not knowing why. Someone was playing flute.

And he had felt it.

Felt that rush of power through his veins, dizzying and almost painfully strong. Nothing like he had ever felt. His nervousness fed the fire of that surging power, and the next thing he knew, he was slipping out of the room, locking himself in the bathroom. Staring at his hands. The same hands that had strangled him to death in his dream. He clenched his hands into weak, harmless fists, and forced them to his sides.

Trying to take deep, steady breaths, he laid his palms flat against the floor.

He stayed there for a while, until his breaths came steadily, and he had the courage to stand and leave.

Sure, he didn’t have the courage to look in the mirror, but small steps were better than none.


	13. A New Place, A Way Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tucker stumbles upon a library and gets a bit more than he asked for.

Jericho stumbled down unfamiliar streets, trying to find something that gave a hint of Mianite or magic. He felt nude and exposed without his armor. Like a lost child, he wanted to go home, back to their first world, where he didn’t have to bleed to feel powerful. He wanted to be wherever Sonja was, holding onto her rope, even if that meant going back to the void.

There had to be magic here. A way for him to find power. To find Mianite. He’d spent four years praying to him, then praying in an endless loop in his mind from the second he woke up to the smell of cinnamon in the air. He wouldn’t be surprised if Ladia was Steve’s double. Stubborn, a bit hard-headed, tough love. Strong, too. He ran his hand through his hair, remembering Mianite. The one from their home, without metal in his face, only kindness in his eyes.

_Mianite be merciful. Mianite help me. Mianite, please._

The streets were unfamiliar. He hadn’t searched the entire city for Sonja- he’d wanted to, but the sun set too quickly, and by then he’d given up hope. Now, he was face to face with a huge building. It wasn’t a temple, unless temples here had windows and no sign of offerings. He stopped a young boy walking down the street.

“What’s there?”

“Oh. It’s the library. Some merchants built it just last year.”

“You ever been in there?”

“I can’t read yet, mister.”

Jericho sighed, patting the boy on the shoulder and letting him run along. The building was huge and tall, and, while people weren’t necessarily coming and going, he could see through the big glass windows that there were, in fact, people inside. He walked up smooth, stone steps to the door, going in without a second thought.

Immediately, he was hit with the smell of books and something burning. People were studying at the tables. Some looked like merchants, others looked… strange. They wore robes or hoods. Or fine looking silks and dresses. All sorts of people, rich and poor, were sat inside at long tables among the bookshelves.

“Can I help you?” A voice behind him said. He turned around. Nobody was there.

“Over here, now.” The voice said.

Jericho whirled around, suddenly face to face with the person. He wore a fine hooded robe with the hood down, revealing their face. He had a bit of stubble on his face, dark rings under his eyes signaling many, many sleepless nights. There was a weird tattoo on his neck that led down the rest of his body, as Jericho could see the ink on his forearms since his sleeves were rolled up. If Sparklez were here, next to him, he’d do something like ask what the tattoo was or what sort of fabric the fine, hooded robe he wore was made of.

Instead, Jericho asked, “Who are you?”

“I’m the librarian here,” he extended his hand, “Gijsbert. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Jericho took his hand and Gijsbert kissed it. He tried not to flinch away.

“I’m looking for books on magic.”

“Oh, you are a man after my own heart! Come with me, I’ll show you what we’ve got.”

Jericho blinked, following Gijsbert as he turned in a rush of his robes, Jericho having to run just a little to catch up to Gijsbert.

“That’s it?” Jericho said, watching Gijsbert as he slipped between bookshelves. “No crazy loopholes?”

“No.” Gijsbert started to look over the books, tracing his tattooed fingers (that must’ve been painful) over the spines of books “Knowledge is free here, as long as you don’t hurt any books. Anything specific?”

Jericho paused. Blood magic was nice. Powerful, familiar. It was what he liked and knew a lot about. Starting all over again, repeating. It made his stomach twist. He was tired of repeating. Of pain. If only he could go back-

Wait.

“Inter-dimensional travel. Anything you’ve got. If that’s a thing, I mean.”

Gijsbert smiled, lopsided and sincere. He turned, starting to walk away, into another row of books, his robes rippling behind him.

“Of course. It’s actually a favorite of mine, really, it is. Oh, we’re going to be best of friends. Come with me, Mr…”

“Jericho,”

“Jericho,” Gijsbert repeated, “there’s a lot of books about what you’re looking for in the second level, but I think you would be best starting out with basic things- teleportation, shape shifting… maybe a little matter manipulation. That’s always fun.”

“Why all that?”

“Do you start a story at the thrilling conclusion?” Gijsbert scoffed. “You have to have something to build off of. Teleportation to help build up to inter dimensional travel, shapeshifting to get you better knowledge of your own body, and matter manipulation- well, any sort of manipulation is fun.”

Jericho froze in his tracks. Gijsbert walked ahead before realizing he left him behind, then turned (with a very telling swish) and came back to Jericho.

“Is something wrong?

“Look, buddy,” Jericho admitted, staring at the floor, “I’m just trying to go home. As soon as possible.”

Gijsbert was suddenly next to him and clasped his hand on his shoulder. He smelled like old books, but more prominently of that burning smell. Burning the candle at both ends.

“I can understand that,” he said, eyes full of sympathy, “But you need to take this slowly, or you’ll get really, really hurt. We don’t need another causality. You’re staying with Ladia, right? The big, scary woman that plays flute on the roof?”

“How do you know?”

“It’s her shirt you’re wearing, hon. Get that blush off your face! Sure, it’s… big, but it suits you. But yes- She knows better than almost anyone what magic can do if you’re not careful. So be careful.”

Jericho shut his mouth, taking the hint to be quiet. So she wasn’t lying. Something had happened to her son. She had lost people. Gijsbert looked at the shelves around them, grabbing a thin book and placing it into his hands. Jericho peeked into another row of books, watching as someone looked at a book, making it float down into their hands. Gijsbert grabbed another book.

“Can you do magic?” Jericho asked. Gijsbert paused, and with a flick of his hand-

Jericho suddenly felt seized. Like when Sparklez was messing with his Witchery shit. Or when he was rushing at Dianite with the Kikoku, not in control of his own body.

“Yes, I can do magic,” Jericho said.

He waved his arms about. Jumped up and down. All without his say so. He grabbed a book off the shelves without his permission, then stood still, straight backed like a soldier. Gijsbert made another gesture and he felt himself be released. He breathed in, deeply.

“For the fucking love of Mianite,” Jericho groaned, “What was that?”

Gijsbert smiled, a twinkle in his eyes, turned, then walked deeper into the library. Jericho followed, carrying both the books he was given- one surprisingly thin, the other much, much thicker.

“It’s called Thralling, Jericho.” Gijsbert laughed, kind and bright.

Jericho let his mind wander. What if he was able to seize someone in their tracks. Compel them to do something. He could’ve kept Andor from getting captured. Stopped Sonja from going out in the void. Stop Sparklez from doing something that doomed their world again, kept everything neat and orderly as it should be.

“I want in.”

Gijsbert gave him a look.

“To- to the Thralling. I mean,” Jericho clarified.

“Of course you do. I’ll help you learn. You’re lucky I like you. Yes, you and I are going to be best of friends. Come along now. I hope you’re strong.”

“Why,” Jericho asked, sarcastic, “Because I’ll need it to survive this?”

Gijsbert laughed.

“No, because you’re going to have a lot of books to carry.”


	14. Chalk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Late into the night Rha makes a call.

Night settled easily over Vatredas, like a wounded man slowly slipping into the balance of death, Ianite be praised, her mercy is great.

Or, well, someone’s mercy was.

Rha was alone in his house by the temple, a bottle of wine in one hand, a piece of white chalk in the other. The sigil on the floor was almost done. He set the white chalk down on the table, in between two glasses. He opened the wine, set it on the table, and grabbed the purple chalk, drawing a circle around the symbol.

Muttering the words of the spell under his breath, he shut his eyes and kneeled in front of the circle, clasping his fist over his heart. A flash of light, a rush of wind. He opened his eyes. Kneeling in front of him in the circle, Celia mirrored him, her hand clasped over her heart. She had her full set of armor on, glaring at him with all three eyes. Her huge, raven wings were folded tightly to her back, still adorned in their armor, which gleamed cruelly in the light of the spell.

“Always my reflection, sister.”

She laughed.

“You wish I was your reflection.”

“Oh, come on-“

“Do you even own a mirror, o' Priest of Ianite?”

Rha folded his arms.

“Do you have any respect for the sacred, o' Champion of Ianite?”

Celia stood, suddenly solemn.

“What do you need to discuss, Rha? I was busy with a… rather grateful widow.”

Rha scoffed.

“Really now? And who’s fault is it that she’s a widow?”

“Mine, but she’s glad about her new status. Believe me. She thinks I was the answer to all her prayers. She was just in the middle of telling me about it before you called me away.”

Rha fidgeted, lowering his fist. “Back to the matter at hand. Today, I met a man-“

“Here we go again.”

“Not like that! Not this man, at least. He was hurt. Wounded badly. And I prayed to Ianite, to ease his pain… but she didn’t answer.”

“What?”

“Celia, I watched him be healed. There were red sparks, then he was healed. It was Dianite’s doing, I know it. Celia, it was Dianite, he stepped in and healed that man.”

Celia was grinding her teeth. Even under her helmet it was visible.

“Dianite, Huh? Does our shitcunt sibling have anything to do with this? I would love a chance to kill them.”

Rha’s brows shot up.

“Ianite be praised, Celia!” He exclaimed, “I have no clue if this is their doing or not. I just wanted you to know, just in case something like that happens to you. Or worse, if Mianite starts breaking free.”

Celia’s jaw relaxed. She took off her helmet, glaring at Rha with eyes of pure, electric purple- one, two, and the third on her forehead. Her hair had started to turn purple at the roots, and there was a speckled black splash of skin right at the curve of her jaw, like enderman skin.

“Ianite be praised,” Rha whispered. Celia nodded, repeating him.

“I’ll keep all my eyes open. But Rha,” she looked away. “Stay safe, and have faith.”

“You’re telling me to have faith? Oh- I have wine. Do you want any?”

She stuck out her hand, Rha passing her a glass and pouring the wine. She snatched the bottle out of his hand, grinning wolfishly.

“And Celia, please, stay safe-“

But before she could hear, she beat her wings against the ground, blowing the chalk away and leaving nothing but empty air where she once was. Rha sat on the ground, suddenly feeling exhausted. He wrapped himself up in his wings. Oh, Celia. Always so reckless. She would get herself hurt one of these days, it was only a matter of time. He coughed from the chalk dust in the air.

Ianite wasn’t a protector. She was the pivot that balance was hung from. She kept the fragile balance, and if Celia was her weapon of choice, then so be it.

Rha fell asleep like that, curled in on himself and scared- for his future, his goddess, and for his sister.


	15. The Second Night is Always Colder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wag does his best to comfort Martha.

Wag could stare at her forever. Martha was lying next to him, the two of them the only ones in the Inn. All the others were off doing their own business, wherever they were. He was rubbing Martha’s shoulders, watching the sun set.

“You saw him, Waggles. Crying, thrashing against me- you know, it was the first time Andor has ever said fuck.”

“Really?” He said, honestly not very shocked.

“Yes. He’s off exploring again, but he wouldn’t calm down. I hope he finds something that reminds him of his home. Maybe a boomerang. Or a dock with a good view of the sea. Hell, I don’t know if that would do anything for the poor boy. I think all that time in the void changed him.”

“I think it changed all of us,” he responded, digging his thumbs into a particularly hard knot in her neck, “I’m still waiting on a bath, so I can wash all these tally marks off. It’s not very fun, you know, walking around covered in a reminder of all the time I lost. We lost.”

“Didn’t you go to the bathroom earlier?”

“No,” Wag said. Martha sighed.

“Speaking of lost,” Martha whispered, shutting her eyes and leaning back against him, “did you really lose all your magic?”

Wag stiffened.

“Yes.”

“You’re lying, little wizard.”

“I still have it,” Wag admitted, “but it feels… different.”

“Weaker? Farther away? That’s how mine feel. But they’re still there.”

Wag wrapped his arms around her.

“No. Stronger. And I don’t like it. It was like I was being overtaken by it, like my body was a live wire. I was locked in place, it was horrifying. If Dianite lost his powers when he came here, and so did Jericho and Sparklez, and you sort of did, then what does that mean for me?”

Martha brought her hand up, gently pushing Wag’s hood down, cupping his face in her palm.

“Whatever it means, I’ll never let anyone lay a hand on my Champion.”

Wag laughed, leaning into Martha’s touch. Something- someone- was missing. They tried to ignore it, but it sucked all the warmth out of the room like a vacuum. Wag pulled Martha closer to him, shuddering against her.

“We’ll figure this out,” Martha promised, more to herself than him.

“Yeah, we will.”

Wags looked at his own hand, pressing it flat against the blanket.

“I promise, we will.”


	16. Surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom and Andor talk.

Tom spent the whole day wandering, trying to get his bearings, and, when he got bored of both, playing a game with a few of the cities children. It was a strange game, but even though Tom lost almost every single round, it was fun. And the children appreciated his over-competitiveness. To him, it seemed like a wonderful, safe town.

Which is why he was so shocked when he entered the Cinnamon Grove Inn to see Andor sitting at a table, staring him down with a cup of tea in his hands. That wasn’t shocking. What was shocking was when he sat down and Andor whispered, mindful of how very late it was-

“You’re in danger.”

Tom laughed.

“What? Why, I haven’t destroyed anything. Yet.”

Andor groaned, the same sound he made back in the void, when Mot used brute force to get Andor to shut up. In Mot’s defense, they had all been trying to sleep.

“Tom,” Andor said, “it’s not about you, it’s about Dianite.”

“Uh, what about him?” Tom said with a laugh. Andor sipped his tea.

“Worshiping him is taboo here,” he said after a long sip, “and I’m scared that Rha heard you talking about, you know, being Dianite’s Champion. Even if he didn’t believe that, seeing your wound just… heal in a flurry of red? That would raise some suspicion. He’ll think it was Dianite’s doing.”

“Well, it was. Scar turned into a cool looking symbol-thing.”

Andor blinked.

“Thomas, if you’re fucking with me I’ll beat you senseless.”

“I would never fuck with you! That's, like, the universe's job. Not mine.” Tom paused. “But what about Jericho and Sonja?”

“What about them?”

“They worship Mianite! And Mot worships- no, is literally in love with Dianite! And- oh, holy fuck, Dianite’s Dianite!”

“Tom- Tom,” Andor begged, gingerly placing his hand on his shoulder, “You need to calm down. You don’t want anyone to find us.”

There was a beat of silence. 

The air around them shifted. A man in a fine robe suddenly appeared. Jericho was limp in his arms.

“Ah. Just the people I was looking for.”

Andor fumbled for a weapon, coming up with nothing but his broken boomerang. Meanwhile, Tom had fallen off his stool and was screaming bloody murder, trying desperately to escape. The man just sort of stood there.

“Uh. You two Jericho’s friends?”

“Who the fuck are you?” Andor shouted, holding the boomerang.

“I’m Gijsbert, Jericho’s friend. He, ah, kind of exhausted himself,” he explained. Tom was still screaming, more out of shock than real fear. He quieted down, eerily sudden, mouth shut. Gijsbert lowered his hand.

“He’s not a quick learner, really, but a passionate one. Poor thing wore himself out, wanted to keep going-“

“So you killed him?” Tom shrieked. Gijsbert looked a little shocked.

“No? I knocked him out. How’d you- never mind. When he wakes up, tell him he can come over to the library whenever he wants. I’ll keep his books on hold.”

Gijsbert set Jericho on a table, and, without another another word, was gone with a flutter of robes.

Tom stood and rushed over to Jericho, Andor still thrown off by the sudden disappearance. Tom shook him awake, desperately. Jericho groaned, eyes fluttering open.

“Oh, holy Dianite, thank fuck! I thought you were fucking dead Jericho! Fuck, are you okay?”

Jericho awkwardly smacked him.

“Stop yelling, Tommy,” he begged, “My head’s killing me.”

Tom sighed with relief, wrapping Jericho up in his arms, hugging him tight. Jericho returned it, loosely.

“Where were you?” Andor asked, putting away the boomerang.

“Library,” Jericho slurred, “So I can be magical. I’m not allowed to do the magic here, though. Ladia’d kill me.”

Tom looked at Andor, who shrugged.

“Well,” Andor asked, “You’re okay, right?”

Jericho nodded against Tom’s shoulder, slumped against him.

“Yeah. I’m okay.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Tom whispered, “I’m supposed to be the stupid one.”

Jericho laughed.

The sun was starting to rise outside, yellow and promising of a beautiful, new day.


	17. Across

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sonja and Lev bond.

They came to a river lazily crossing in front of them. Fireflies and strange, glittering insects fluttered around their heads, unfamiliar flowers brushing their ankles as the two of them made their trek. While Sonja was thinking of a way they could get across, be it a boat, or swimming, or even flying, she couldn’t deny how beautiful the river was. The moon hazily reflected off of the near stagnant water, so did the trees, the shining insects. She didn’t look her reflection in the eye.

Lev set up the tents, left to pick apples, and came back with their cloak off. The cloak was filled with apples, and they wore only worn, greenish travel pants, a shirt, and a wrap of sorts around their face like a blindfold. All Sonja could see was their mouth, the slightest bit of their nose, and their hair, which was flaming red.

“Are you blind?” Sonja asked, “Sorry. That was rude.”

Lev laughed, sitting down and laying the cloak filled with apples between them. Sonja looked at them.

“No, this is a fashion choice,” Lev deadpanned. Their mouth twisted into a grin, and they cackled.

“I can’t tell whether or not you’re being sarcastic,” Sonja deadpanned, picking up an apple and taking a deep bite into it.

“Sonja, I have a question.”

“Go ahead,” she said, mouth full of apple.

“Where did you fall from?”

Sonja paused. She swallowed.

“Don’t call me crazy, but…” how would she say this? Oh well. Here goes. “…I come from two different worlds, universes, alternate to this one. The first is a land called the realm of Mianite, and I, well, worshiped Mianite. My friends and I went on adventures, killed a god, and in the end we had to leave. I don’t really remember why, in all honesty. Someone said jump, and we jumped. The next thing I knew, I woke up in a jail cell, in a new world, with magic and this stuff called taint, and new gods, too. And I was close to calling it home, really, I was… then it collapsed in on itself. Like a dying star.

“We all had to leave again, jump into a portal and I thought 'oh, it’ll be like last time. A quick fall.' Hell, at one point I thought it would take us back to the first world. But it didn’t. It kept us, trapped us for four fucking years. I saw things, suspended in the void, and I tried to find them, but they were never there. Even though I knew I had to be seeing things, I had to go look, just in case it was salvation, just in case Mianite chose me to be the hero this time, the savior. Then it spat us out, and now I’m here, alone, because Jericho let go of the goddamn rope-“

She sobbed, slapping her hand over her mouth. Tears poured steadily down her face. Lev gingerly placed their hand on her shoulder, watching helplessly as she buried her face in her hands, weeping openly. Lev tried to say something, but just stuttered. They sighed.

Something fluttered by her ear. Lev took their hand off her shoulder.

“Hey, don’t being sad. Look.”

Sonja pulled her face from her hands, sniffling. There was a little butterfly resting on Lev’s gloved finger. It opened and shut its colorful wings. She wiped her eyes, staring at the little butterfly. Lev awkwardly smiled at her. Sonja wished she could look them in the eyes.

“I miss them so, so much.”

Lev faced away. The butterfly fluttered away, into the black night sky.

“We’ll find your friends. But tonight? We sleep. We’ll be there in, oh, six day.”

“But what is they’re not there? I don’t want to be alone.”

Lev shrugged. They took an apple from the pile, taking a huge bite out of it with surprisingly sharp teeth.

“Then, I’ll make sure you’re not alone, my friend.”

Sonja smiled, eyes still red with tears, and looked up at the moon, then past it, into the black void of the heavens.

Somewhere in the distance, the sun was rising over Vatredas.


	18. Third

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something in Wag burns strong, stronger than his fear.

Wag woke with a start, the feeling of choking hands around his neck like a burning collar around his throat. Tentatively, he brushed his throat with his hand, feeling nothing but the skin of his neck. He pulled his hand away. It… flickered. The air around it hummed with energy. He stood from the bed, careful not to disturb Martha, or Deviser in one cot over, eyes never leaving his hands. Crackling. Sparkling.

His dreams had been a strange, shifting hellscape. The choking hands returned, but now there were more than just two. Three, seven, twelve, eighteen million, all around his throat and squeezing, the world spinning in a haze. It still felt like someone was missing, though, that there should’ve been one more pair of hands.

He looked over to one of the cots.

It was empty. He touched the bed. Instantaneously, the sheets scorched, becoming pitch black under his grasp. It was cold. He yanked the blanket over the spot, hands scorching the blanket as well. He stumbled back, panicking. There was only three people missing. Mot and Dianite, who were probably at the market, and-

Oh no.

Wag rushed back to Martha, and, with barely a brush of his hand, she woke with a start, panting as if she had just ran a mile.

“Wag? What time is it? Are you okay? What’s- what’s happening?”

Wag swallowed. He hid his hands behind his back.

“Sparklez is missing. I woke up and he wasn’t there- Dianite and Mot aren’t here too, but I think they just left but Sparklez still isn’t here-“

“Waglington,” Martha harshly whispered, “He’s probably still at the temple.”

“Why?!?”

“Be quiet, Waggles, you don’t want to wake the others.”

The words had power, whether Martha realized it or not. Wag shut his mouth. His hands hummed against the small of his back like live wires.

“You told me all about this Ianite. I don’t want him to get hurt.”

“Darling,” Martha whispered, cupping Wag’s face in her hands, “Sparklez is a smart man. He’ll be fine, I’m sure of it. He needs just… a bit more time to grieve. This is a shock to him, to all of us, and I think he needs some time alone. Okay?”

Wag nodded, letting go of his hands and resting them at his sides. A finger brushed the floorboard-

-And nothing happened. The humming was gone. For now, at least. Suddenly very tired, he climbed back into bed, laying next to Martha, crushing his hands under his back.

The last thing he wanted was to touch her and burn her, too.


	19. Market

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mot and Dianite have some fun swindling people in the marketplace.

Dianite and Mot went to market at the crack of dawn at Dianite’s insistence. Mot tried to hide his excitement, just because he enjoyed seeing Dianite try to literally pull him along, tugging at him and, at one point, even trying to lift him. But, eventually, they got to the marketplace, right in the middle of Vatredas. The sun had barely risen, and yet there was still a crowd of finely clothed merchants setting up their stalls.

Mot watched as Dianite halted in his tracks, a smile on his face. When he first saw the market it took him back to his home and the domain he had over the merchants of Ruxomar, and his hands itched to be behind one of those stalls, selling and trading and haggling over the prices of spices and silks and whatever else was coming through. Even if everything went to shit, there’d always be commerce, trade. Goodness knows what it was doing to Dianite, literal God of trade and commerce.

Instead of thinking about that, he wandered to the nearest stall. A pair of ruby earrings sat in a bed of velvet, delicately wrapped in gold, not gaudy, but simple, lovely. Dianite came up behind him.

“Mot, my flower, my darling, my dearest. Holder of my heart…”

“What?” Mot said, as if his cheeks weren’t burning red against the green scar on his face.

“You remember what we did in that one town?”

“Be more specific, sweetheart,” Mot joked, “we’ve been to many, many towns.”

“I’m talking about that charming little port town with that wonderful view-“

“Oh. That? Really. You think you pull that off again?”

Dianite laughed, “Of course! I may not have my magic, but that was all talent, hard fought and learned talent!”

Mot rolled his eyes, but he was smiling under his scarf.

“Alright then. Make this whole market yours in a week, starting with…” Mot looked around, then crouched down, picking a little dandelion, “…This. And you can trade your way up, my Lord.”

“This is a weed?”

Mot wrapped his arms around Dianite’s neck, standing on his tip toes to kiss him on the jaw.

“In the right hands,” Mot cooed, “It’s as good as gold.”

Dianite pulled down his scarf and kissed him, pulling back with an indignant squawk when he remembered where he first heard that said.

“I said that! To you! All those years ago…”

“Then go prove it’s true.”

Mot pulled up his scarf, walking away to find a good place to stand.

The show was about to start.

—

Mot watched from the sidelines as the market flooded with people. He could clearly see Dianite, standing tall above almost all the other people in the market. He wasn’t small by any means (unless next to Ladia) and the red… definitely made him stand out. He was still for a couple of moments and then-

Then!

He stopped a young, well dressed man in his tracks, holding the flower like the most precious thing in the world. There was talking, only a little, then the man was passing him a pouch of something- tea? Mot couldn’t tell from how far away he was. But Dianite took it, gave him the flower, and went along his merry way.

He tried keeping track of the goods exchanging hands, but in the crowd it was impossible, especially with how fast Dianite worked. One second he was carrying the pouch, then a bolt of silk, then what looked like a fur of some sort- back and forth, darting like a bee between flowers.

His smile was the brightest thing Mot had seen in years. It caught the sun like a diamond, glinting and beautiful, precious yet stronger than anything. Dianite pushed his way out of the crowd, stumbling up to Mot.

“Successful?” Mot asked. Dianite nodded, holding up a pouch of coins, before slipping it into his jacket pocket.

“I got you something.”

“Really now? What is it?”

Dianite shyly passed him a box, about as wide as his hand, and he opened it, gasping. It was like the earrings in the merchant booth, delicate gold and dazzling ruby, Mot feeling tears well up in his eyes as he removed it from its velvet nest, cradling it in his hands.

“I saw you looking at those earrings,” Dia said, ever so smooth, “but I know your ears aren’t pierced, so I got you the, er, necklace equivalent.”

“Oh, I love it…” Mot slowly put it on, clipping it behind his head, letting it rest right on his chest, hidden by his scarf but still wonderful, beautiful, all his. He stood, suddenly filled with determination.

“Could you pluck me a flower, Dia?”

Dianite smiled, getting down on one knee and plucking a little blue wildflower from a crack in the road.

“Anything for you,” he said, smiling.

Mot stared down at him- a literal god, kneeling at his feet, vowing to do anything for him…

He smiled, taking the flower from Dianite’s grasp. Their fingers brushed a second too long.

“I’m going to go trade you under the table.”

Dianite, still kneeling, nodded.

“I’m counting on it.”


	20. Interlude 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jordan makes a choice.

There was something dripping down his face.

Water? Wine? Sweat? Blood?

The air was thick and echo-less, and he didn’t know if he was walking, because he couldn’t see his feet, couldn’t hear them on the ground.

Like falling, all over again.

Someone was singing. Someone was talking. Someone was nudging him, no, they were carrying him. Outside was bright. Birds sang. They carried him more. He wondered if the others knew he was missing. If they slept. Martha would keep them away from him, the temple. Because he needed to grieve.

How could you grieve for the living?

Ianite had always been so kind. So strong. And in this world, she knew her strength. Used it to keep the balance of the world. Keep people free, but not wild, orderly, but not… boring. He snorted, letting his eyes slip shut. He might’ve blacked out. The next thing he knew, he was being set down. They stripped his shirt off, gingerly pushed him to the ground. He went without a fight, shivering as cold air hit his skin, dew soaking through his pants.

Rha leaned in front of him as the others kept him steady, holding his arms. His eyes were a blur of shaky purple, Sparklez tried to clear his head, blinking stray tears out of his eyes. Not grieving.

“Are you sure about this?” The priest whispered.

“Ianite be praised,” Jordan hissed, “I’m certain.”

Rha stood, and Sparklez watched as he started a fire with the flick of his hand. It roared, hotter than hot. Someone passed Rha something that looked like a metal rod. He put it on the fire, and all of them waited. Sparklez shut his eyes, praying to Ianite.

He could almost see her, eagle and scale, smiling proudly.

The birds flew from the trees with the first scream.


	21. What the Water Gave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom dreams of flowers and voices.

Tom still slept, even as their third day in Vatredas inched its way from noon into evening.

A dream was holding him, tight in its grasps.

He was waist deep in warm water, the surface obscured by hundreds and thousands and hundreds of thousands of lotus flowers and lilly pads. Each blossom was as colorful as a million sunsets, brushing up against his bare skin, the scar on his side. Before that he had been in an endless forest, berry bushes lining his path and birds of all colors staring silently at him. It was rather pretty. Sonja would’ve liked it.

Maybe he could bring her a blossom. He could bring Sparkelz one, too. Bring Jericho one. Wag, Martha, Dianite, Mot, even the Deviser, who had been silent since they arrived in Vatredas. Quietly, he reached out, pulling at a blossom.

It didn’t even budge. He pulled harder. Yet again, nothing. He pulled again, and again, digging his feet in the muck at the bottom of the pond-

His foot slipped.

He fell backwards into the water, haloed by lotuses. He gasped. Water filled his nose and mouth, but he wasn’t drowning. His body was suspended in the water, no surface or bottom in sight. Just the lotus flowers. He flipped over, trying helplessly to find the bottom or the surface of the water.

**_I have heard you_**, a voice said, echoing throughout the limitless blue water. **_In all your falling prayers. I have always heard you, I think. You’re closer now._**

He started to swim, desperately paddling in whichever direction.

** _I cannot do anything to answer them. I am still trapped, my hands are bound. I can only do small things from my prison. It is beautiful here, I must admit. My affect on the world. Nature. Beauty. Untamable chaos._ **

Suddenly, Tom saw something glimmering in the water. He swam to it. A curved blade was suspended in the water, razor sharp edge shining like anything. He grabbed it by the hilt. The runes on the blade were familiar.

** _Faith is the opposite of sensibility. I cannot move to save you, or your friends, but I have heard every word you have prayed to me. Thomas, you must go out and answer them yourself. Take them into your own hands- they always have been in your hands. Protect your friends against my sister, her followers. Protect them against one another. Themselves. I have no doubts in you._ **

A lotus blossom floated in front of his face.

** _I will always be with you._ **

He raised the blade. With one quick movement, he slashed it through the lotus, the petals flying around him, rushing with all the colors of the sunset. They covered him, embraced him in a cocoon of fluttering color.

** _Always._ **

The world went white.

—

Tom opened his eyes. His head spun in groggy circles, ears faintly ringing. Someone moved in the corner of his eye.

“Steve?” He slurred, hating how his voice sounded.

“No, not him,” Ladia said. She poured a cup of tea, reeking of cinnamon. “It’s just me. It’s 3, by the way. Your friends aren’t here.”

He sat up.

“You ever have a really fucked up dream? Where someone was talking to you?”

“Yes,” Ladia said, “But I’ve never had a dream where I’ve woken up with a knife in my hands.”

Tom looked down. There, curled in his fist, was the knife from his dream. Was that Dianite? Oh, it just had to be him! Wait.

“Shit, you won’t kill me, right?”

Ladia laughed.

“It would be counterproductive to do that, since I think we both want the same thing. For those idiots that fell from the sky to be safe.”

“I tried to get them a lotus,” Tom whispered. “Wait. So you worship Dianite, too?”

“No.” Ladia replied, “Mianite.”

“I’m Dianite’s champion,” Tom said, ever so smug, “One of them, at least.” Ladia smiled, giving him a cup of tea. He took it in the hand not holding the knife, too scared to let go.

“I can’t say I’m anyone’s champion. But Mianite blessed me with my strength. I was someone else in my youth, maybe something close to a champion, but that was a long time ago.”

“I was a god, once, for a little bit,” Tom offered, “I killed Dianite in another world. Well, I killed a lot of people back then, but he stayed dead that time.”

He took a slow sip of the tea, standing.

“Well, I’m off to wherever Tucker is. I’m going to go talk to him about that Gijsbert guy.”

“Check the library. Walk in the opposite direction of the merchants, and keep going,” Ladia said. Tom nodded.

“Right. And I won’t get in trouble, or like, killed, for worshiping Dianite?”

Ladia scoffed. “Not here. This is a haven, like the library. The executioners can’t attack the library, that would make too much of a statement, and they would never dare to cross me.”

“And why’s that? They don’t like cinnamon?” Tom joked.

“Oh, no reason,” Ladia said, looking out the window. “Just a hunch. Now go check up on your friend- and when you see Gijsbert, call him a facetious harlot for me, will you?”

Tom nodded, waving the knife in good-bye before slipping out of the room, standing alone in the hallway.

Even then, he didn’t feel alone. He looked at the knife in his hand, a smile on his face.

No, he wasn’t alone.


	22. Anew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jordan wakes up feeling heavier than ever.

The ground was cold and comfortable. Someone had drawn a chalk circle in front of his face, the purple markings thrummed with energy. Sparklez pushed himself up on his arms, grimacing as white hot pain shot through his back. There was something warm covering him. Opening his eyes, he grimaced as the sun got in them, blinking rapidly.

Rha talked in hushed whispers to someone else.

“…And what of the bull?”

“Oh, fuck her. I want to meet this new executioner.”

“He’s not awake yet.”

“Yes, he is. Look behind you.”

Sparklez opened his eyes, watching as Rha turned from the armored figure he was talking to to him, staring down at him with purple eyes. The armored figure watched.

“Hello there.”

“Hi,” Sparklez said through gritted teeth, “Dang, that hurts.”

The armored figure laughed. Rha grabbed him by the arms, helping Sparklez slowly stand, legs shaking.

“Are you okay?” The priest asked. Sparklez nodded. He flexed the muscles in his back. They felt raw and sore.

“Who are you?” He asked. The armored figure opened her raven wings.

“I am Celia, champion of Ianite.”

Sparklez awkwardly bowed. It felt different.

“Funny, I was just about to say that about myself. Everyone calls me Sparklez. I, uh, like your armor.”

“Thank you. ‘Twas a gift from our lady. Speaking of gifts…”

Sparklez looked down at himself. The brand at the base of his neck throbbed. So did the other…. new things. Both of them stared at him with expectant eyes. He flexed the muscles on his back, shakily raising his arms.

Slowly, his wings opened. White, lined with black feathers, the back of them a glossy grey. They quivered, downy and new, the tips of the wings reaching the walls of the room. The muscles in his back and wings spasmed, his knees buckling underneath him. He fell to the ground, limp.

Rha stared at him, eyes wide and disbelieving. Celia whistled. She walked up to him, clapping him on the shoulder with a heavy metal glove.

“You, boy, will make Ianite proud. She has already shown you her favor. Stay with Rha. Once you’re healed, you can start your work. You should be very proud.”

Sparklez smiled, even though he felt anything but proud.

“Ianite be praised,” he said.

“You really do like saying that, don’t you?”

Without another word, Celia walked to the circle of chalk and beat her wings against the ground, scattering the chalk through the air, disappearing without a trace.

“You can stay here,” Rha said as the chalk started to settle, “I don’t think going back to the Inn would be wise in your… condition. I need to make sure everything heals as it should.” Rha walked away, going to the table in the building, fiddling with some of the bottles and bandages on the surface of it. There was a single wine glass on the table.

Sparklez nodded. The Inn.

Shit. What would Andor think of this? And Martha? This wasn’t grieving. This was… the right thing. No, that didn’t sound right. It was something. It was dedication, devotion to his lady, no matter what.

The wings on his back felt heavier than ever.


	23. 101

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone lives in their own world. Tucker just wants to get back to his.

Jericho’s lip was bleeding. Blood still tasted like iron, familiar and thick. Three hours of reading, gnawing his lip in concentration, then three hours of trying and failing and trying and failing to do anything with that knowledge. Gijsbert’s study was a comfortable place, though, a top floor view of Vatredas shining through the windows. Most of the room, however, was bookshelves and stacks of random books, two cluttered desks and other tables, and a tea set with a familiar looking design on the cups.

“What’s it supposed to feel like?” He asked. Gijsbert (who had been standing right in front of him, right by the target he was supposed to teleport to) kind of wiggled in his place.

“Well, it’s, like… dancing. To me, at least. Like you’re dancing without moving. Maybe you could try dancing. A little, ya know,” Gijsbert twirled, waving his arms about like an idiot, robes swishing. Jericho sighed. He shut his eyes, moving just so, thinking of that target on the ground…

…he opened his eyes. He hadn’t moved an inch.

“Nope. Nada. Dancing? You’re sure?”

Gijsbert nodded.

“I have to move while doing my magic, or it doesn’t work. It’s why I wear these robes- makes moving easy. And, well, I can’t stand tight clothes. Make my skin crawl. But yes, dancing, dear. It can be anything from a couple hand movements, to… well, whatever the magic moves me to do.

Jericho looked inside himself. He felt disappointed and salty and sad and a little sweaty, not exactly like dancing.

“What’s your favorite thing to do, with your magic, I mean?” Jericho asked, desperate to change the subject from his failure.

Gijsbert smiled, and disappeared with a ruffle of robes.

“Really?” Jericho asked, spinning around and trying to find him, “turning invisible?”

“Not invisible, no,” Gijsbert said from… somewhere, “just thralling you to be unable to look at me. Dunno what I’ll call it, but it’s cool, huh?”

“Yeah, sure.” Jericho wished he had his sword, or even a knife, something he could swing with. Just in case. Gijsbert appeared behind him, Jericho jumping.

“Shit, man!”

Gijsbert laughed, prancing back to stand by the target in a flutter of robes.

“Go on, just… energy from one place to another. Like leaping from place to place. Do what… do what feels right, okay? And then we can take a break. Okay hon?”

Jericho’s cheeks turned an impressive shade of red.

“Don’t patronize me,” he growled.

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Now, focus.”

Jericho shut his eyes. He tried imagining the target on the ground, Gijsbert next to him, but all he could see was the darkness behind his eyes. Dark and fluttering, like the void all around him. Still falling. Falling to somewhere. To the target on the floor. That’s where he would fall to. He clenched his fists, as if still holding onto Sonja’s rope, inhaled, and opened his eyes-

-To find he hadn’t moved at all.

“Fuck!” He screamed, stomping his foot on the ground, “God fucking damn it!”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Gijsbert cooed, “Nobody gets it right on their first try. Let’s take a break, maybe have a drink-“

“No! I need to get this right!”

“You can try again after a break. I don’t want you passing out like yesterday.”

“I can do this, I need to do this-“

“And why’s that?” Gijsbert snapped, “What’s more important than your well being?”

Jericho pulled at his hair, “Everything! Getting home, finding my friend, freeing my god, that’s more important than me, that’s bigger than me! So I need to do this!”

The door flew open. Gijsbert flicked his hand, Jericho whirling around to see Tom, standing there frozen, a knife in hand.

“What are you doing here?” Gijsbert and Jericho said in unison. They looked at one another.

“You know Tom?”

“Yeah. He screamed at me last night, when I brought you home, I really did frighten the poor thing. Now, what have you to say?”

“Uh,” Tom started, body free from the thrall. He fidgeted. “I’m not here to kill you-“

“That’s comforting.”

“I’m here to check up on Jericho, really. But Ladia wanted me to call you a fascist- no, uh, facis, facicious? Wait! I got it- she wants me to call you a ‘Facetious Harlot’. So, yeah! Get roasted, wizard bitch!”

Gijsbert gasped, over dramatic, and placed a hand to his chest.

“Me? Facetious?”

“I don’t know what it means,” Tom said, “I think harlot is fancy for slut, though.” He paused. “Is that what you two have been getting up to?”

Jericho’s face turned bright red, and he buried his face in his hands.

“No, Tom, I’m, I’m learning magic. He’s teaching me magic.”

Tom smirked, “Well, is he magic in bed?”

“Oh, you fiend!” Gijsbert exclaimed, laughing, “I certainly am, but you mustn’t mention it around such sensitive ears.”

Maybe Gijsbert was Tom’s double, Jericho reasoned, both of them were annoying as fuck.

“Tom, why are you here? Just, can you go now?”

“Nah, man, I’m here to make sure you’re not being an idiot.”

“Making sure I’m not an idiot? That’s like the blind leading the blind, man.”

Tom looked down at the knife he was carrying. Who was dumb enough to give him a knife?

“I want to make sure you’re okay. Are you?”

Jericho gnawed at the inside of his lip. Gijsbert’s eyes bore into him, asking him a silent, impossible question. What it was, he didn’t know, but he couldn’t quit. To him, there was nothing more to the world than the island he once called home, the four of them, exploring infinity, and Mianite’s temple out in the sea.

“Yes,” he insisted, “But… stick around. I’m taking a short break. Maybe we could talk.”

Tom smiled, running his thumb over the runes of the blade.

“Yeah. That’d be nice,” Tom stepped into the study, whistling at the view from the windows. Gijsbert took Jericho’s hand, squeezing ever so slightly.

“Good, Jericho. Talk to your friend for a bit, do some reading. I’m going out. I’ll see you in an hour.”

“Thank you,” Jericho found himself whispering.

“He really is a good friend,” Gijsbert replied, a hint of longing in his voice. Suddenly, he was gone, nothing but the sound of rippling fabric signifying his departure.

Tom was sat at a desk, sitting upside down in the chair, holding a book.

“What is all this shit, anyways?”

Jericho smiled, sitting down on the floor in front of his friend.

“An upside down book, dear Thomas.”

Tom rolled his eyes, flipping the book around with a smile. Jericho’s eyes wandered to the window, staring out among the buildings of Vatredas, wealthy, strong homes. Every single person passed by without looking up, enraptured by their small lives.

And maybe, just maybe, he saw Gijsbert walking proud and lonely down the cobble streets.

And maybe, just maybe, he saw Sonja somewhere on the horizon, coming back to them.


	24. Interlude 3 (Harlot)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gijsbert tries to let the past lie. The past haunts him anyway.

Gijsbert’s robes cracked and whipped behind him like fire as he walked, filling the silence of the crowded street. There was a space next to him, aching to be filled. Someone waved to him. He waved back, forcing a smile.

His feet carried him to the Cinnamon Grove Inn. Ladia was up on the roof, the sound of her flute a haunting noise among the crowds of merchants and people. She played at Cyperian’s funeral, a high and lovely song. And after that, she marched into that city, so many years ago, head held high, and declared its name was Cypra. Not a single soul disputed her. The sun was hot and scorching, that day and today.

He kept walking.

That was so long ago, so far away, when he was younger. Not like that mattered much, really. Aging was foreign to him. He stared down at his hands, nothing but black ink wrapped around his ring finger, then down his arms and up his chest where Cyperian’s hands used to belong.

A part of him wished he had kept the ring. Really, he needed to go visit him. Visit Cypra, see if it was still standing out there. But that could wait, everything could wait. Even when everything was gone, even when there was nothing but nothing and nothing and nothing, it could wait.

And if it couldn’t, he would make it wait.


	25. Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For @fandomstuckportal on tumblr as payback for their beautiful, amazing art of this series
> 
> https://mianite-3-unofficial.tumblr.com/post/186428364776/fandomstuckportal-ooc-these-two-are-awful  
https://mianite-3-unofficial.tumblr.com/post/186428801966/fandomstuckportal-ooc-kick-his-ass-scene  
https://mianite-3-unofficial.tumblr.com/post/186429896221/fandomstuckportal-ooc-since-krys-confirmed  
https://mianite-3-unofficial.tumblr.com/post/186430722626/fandomstuckportal-ooc-im-sorry-ive-been  
https://mianite-3-unofficial.tumblr.com/post/186431352961/fandomstuckportal-ooc-the-eagle-and-the-dove
> 
> Please go show them some love

Andor had left Vatredas an hour ago. The sun hung high in the sky, almost blindingly bright. The wall behind him did nothing to shade the blaze, nothing did. Wheat fields covered the ground on either side of him, some peasants in the fields working to harvest them, skin red and blistering under the sun where their ragged clothes didn’t cover them. Guards stood on the wall, some patrolling through worn paths in the fields. Down the road, maybe by a mile or more, he could see a small village of worn, wooden houses, nothing like anything inside the walls of Vatredas.

If he was who he once was, he would wonder if they knew that just beyond those walls, a rich, proud city stood. Now, he wondered if the rich knew that just beyond those walls, people struggled and sweat in the fields for work. If the priests and executioners of Ianite could see the real places where balance was needed, instead of targeting those who worshiped Mianite or Dianite.

If only he knew what to do.

Ianite was in his blood, pulsing through his heart. There was power inside him, his grandmother's will and his own crushed strength, waiting to grow again. Somehow. Even under the hot sun, he felt like like he was in winter. Dark and cold and suffocating himself under himself, withering.

He was haunted with dreams of Ianite, even when they were falling in the void. He didn’t know if he was seeing a vision, or if it was just a dream, and asking Martha felt… wrong. To give her and Sparklez false hope. That would make him worse than he already was.

What even was he? Not a prince, nor a king. Not a champion. Not even a competent disciple. He did his best, really, he had.

He’d lived through hell. He wandered the world. Built statues, shared stories- all of that just to fall again for four years, to find another world he was a stranger in, to find even the people closest to him becoming strangers. Or just becoming strange. Even he changed, a shifting sea of snow blown in flurries by a strong breeze.

The sun beat down upon him.

Winter was needed, though. Death, barrenness, a time of destruction. All to keep life and the world in balance. If it was winter of his own creation, or if this feeling was just a side effect of all he had been through, or if he was going through something else, he’d find his way out. The ice would melt away, and there, the first blossoms would bloom.

Ianite’s blood was in his veins. If he was winter, then she was winter. If he was a flower, she was, too. He carried her with him, even if he wasn’t as faithful as he once was.

Andor opened his wings, white as a blizzard, white as a lily, and took to the sky.


	26. Answered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sonja prays. Mianite responds, for once.

They walked along the river for hours under the hot, grueling sun until Lev stopped in their tracks.

“This is useless,” They growled, “There’s no bridge. Can’t be.”

“Then how are we going to get across?” Sonja asked.

Lev shrugged, looking across the river.

“No clue. There has to be somewhere to cross, somewhere”, they said, accent thick.

“Don’t you have a map? Or something we could use to make a boat?”

“No,” Lev said sadly, their covered face unreadable, “Didn’t bring much- I think this river is new. Strong magic users can do stuff like this. Or, I’m taking a completely opposite route. Geography is… strange. Sun rises in, er, west, right?”

Sonja put her hands on her hips.

“You’ve never been here before, have you?”

Lev shook their head.

“No. I mean, I’ve been to Vatredas, but not in many, many years. It’s not safe for me anymore.”

“Why, because of your father?”

Lev nodded.

Sonja gave what she hoped was a sympathetic look, and turned to the river. Too wide to swim, really, and none of the trees would be tall enough for a bridge. Without her wand or armor or even her Thaumonimicon, there was no getting across it.

“How could someone make a river with magic?” She wondered aloud.

“Oh,” Lev answered, “Magic is… strange. Might not be the same from where you fell from. There are books on magic, yes, a fuck ton in Vatredas, but lots come from the gods. Lots comes from nature, or emotion. Executioners of Ianite or anyone who’s had their good reading time could do this.”

“Really now?” Sonja said, tone skeptical, “You’re saying if I have an emotional breakdown by the river it’ll part?”

Lev shook their head, “No, I don’t think it works like that. Um. Maybe… maybe there’s magic we could use? Make the water part? Or make a little bridge we could walk across.”

“I haven’t the foggiest fucking idea,” Sonja sighed. “Do you have magic?”

Lev said something in another language, gesticulating wildly for a bit before self consciously pulling their hood a little farther down their face. Sonja stared at the river. Vatredas was somewhere across this river, her friends were somewhere across this river. And it was like falling, all over again, seeing only a mirage of hope, unobtainable.

She could’ve turned around. Could’ve walked away, followed the rope back to safety. But there was no rope to hold her.

She clasped her hands together.

“Listen here, Mianite, you fucker. I don’t care that you don’t know me, I don’t care that you might be different here, like last time. I need you to- no, I demand you to get us over this river, asshole. I demand you take us to Vatredas, to my friends.”

She unclasped her hands, letting them hang loosely by her sides. Both of them stared at the river, Sonja expectantly, Lev with pity.

“Sonja,” Lev murmured, tone sympathetic, “He won’t answer, he’s, er, somewhere. Like Dianite. It’s Ianite’s doing, I don’t… have the right words to explain it.”

Suddenly, they scuttled away from her.

“Shit, Sonja!“

“What?” She spat.

“Fucking- uh, um, spider! On your arm!”

Looking down, there was, in fact, a spider. Not that big, especially when compared to the ones that used to attack them at night. Sonja growled in frustration, flicking the little white spider that decided to rest on her arm into the river.

It floated down, hit the water, and stayed there, bobbing. Sonja stared at it. It seemed to stare at her with all eight eyes, and she was overwhelmed with the feeling of being watched.

Quietly, she walked to the riverbank, crouching by the edge of the water. She reached out, brushing her finger against the spider in the water. It started writhing and steaming, Sonja jerking her hand back, falling against the riverbed. Lev quickly rushed to her, but she was frozen, watching as the water around the spider started to freeze over, thick, white ice forming and freezing against the proud summer heat, solid as marble.

Hundreds, thousands of spiders started to crawl out from the brush, from the forest. All small and white like the first. They crawled along the ice and tossed themselves off, each of them freezing more water, hissing and crackling as their tiny bodies became nothing more than ice, freezing in a smooth, orderly pane.

Sonja stood, an impossible to remove smile on her face. Mianite listened. He actually listened.

“What did you say about him not answering?”

Lev stared, slack-jawed and unbelieving.

“Fuck,” they whispered, “Fuck.”

“Come on,” she said, “Let’s walk across.”

Sonja held her head up high, taking one step onto the ice. It held steady under her. Lev quickly joined her on the ice, almost slipping, but thankfully steadying themselves.

“What if it melts?” Lev shakily asked.

“Then we swim across,” Sonja said, surprising even herself with how confident she sounded.

The water flowed harmlessly under the sheet of ice, Sonja marching across the bridge of ice. Just another river to cross, just another forest, then the wilderness would be gone and Vatredas would reveal itself. She could already feel their arms around her again.

“I’m coming,” she murmured to herself, “I’m on my way.”

The sun glinted harmlessly off the ice.


	27. Message

Ladia stopped in her tracks, almost dropping the glass she was cleaning. The wealthy merchants all sitting at the tables paid her no mind, too distracted to notice her face pale and eyes go wide.

She set the glass down on the bar, looking around, checking for wings, then starting to whistle. Not as proud as her flute, but she hoped it would do.

_What is this?_ She thought, frantic, _What has happened? Mianite? I felt that, I felt you do something. What’s going on? Mianite? Can you hear me? Should I get the travelers?_

A merchant came up to the bar, setting her glass on the table. Ladia filled it with shaking hands, still whistling.

_Please, tell me you’re still okay._

Nothing. Only silence.

She picked up the glass she had been cleaning, gasping as she saw what was inside. A white spider with eight blue eyes, the size of a coin. She gently reached her hand in, letting the spider climb onto her fingertips, leaving the skin it touched red and cold.

She turned around and raised it up to her face, getting a proper look at it. It didn’t move, burning her fingers with cold.

She whistled, low and warbling.

The spider bit her hand, a painful, shrieking cold rushed through her veins, her hand seizing up, crushing the spider in her grip. Freezing, bitter cold surging up her arm, muscles trembling and locking, head thrown back-

Nothing but black. And cold. Everything, so cold.

A voice. Strong and familiar. Booming, drowning her in sound as she was frozen still.

** _Coming, coming, coming…_ **

Then, as soon as it hit, it vanished. The world spun, Ladia grabbing the bar to steady herself. She looked st the merchants- none of them had noticed, and if they had, they’d already paid for their rooms for the night.

Wincing, she stared down at her arm. Her hand was still covered in dead spider, flesh buzzing with cold, frost gathered in her palm. Pressing her fingers against her arm, she grit her teeth. Yes, that would bruise. She wiped her hand on her apron, face stern.

What was coming? Or who? Was it Mianite? Or… no, not a Fracture. Mianite was still imprisoned, the void swallow that balance-freak bitch, but…

A message. A real message. She shuddered, remembering the last one he had sent her. A spider as big as her hand with a thousand eyes, a million, had crawled up on her leg. It had promptly fell dead, and in that room, Ladia felt the cool breeze of fall turning into winter, or wind blowing over a freezing lake.

And that wind, ever so gentle, had whispered to her, and disappeared into nothingness.

But that had been so long ago.

Whatever or whoever was coming, Ladia reasoned, still shaken, was important. More important than important.

_Holy fuck_, Ladia thought, picking up the glass.

It was uncouth, really, to think that of something so huge with only two words. But really, what else could she think?

The buzz of conversation in the room seemed much, much quieter now. To fill the quiet, she whistled.

_Holy fuck, holy fuck, holy fuck._


	28. Sailor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jordan longs for a purpose. All he gets is a cold emptiness.

The table Rha had him laid on was cold against his chest, the floor even colder where the very tips of his wings touched the ground. Rha stood over him, brushing something where his wings met his skin. As ticklish and strange as it felt, he didn’t fidget, just leaned into the warmth of whatever was being brushed over it.

“What will my first task be?” Sparklez asked, a bit drowsily.

Rha laughed. “You will be doing nothing of the sort for a while, Jordan. You still need to heal, learn to fly, learn to fight. Have you ever held a weapon before?”

Yes, he thought, A rapier. A sword. A scythe. A thousand other things that were destroyed when Ruxomar fell, and I can’t stop thinking about every destroyed building, every book, every rose, because it was my fault. And a bow, with these beautiful arrows, made by a beautiful goddess. I miss her. I’m not grieving.

“No,” he murmured, “Not really.”

Rha hummed.

“Then I was right about you. Not a fighter, a devotee. Just like myself.”

“I want to fight,” Sparklez insisted, trying to push himself up on his forearms. Rha gently shoved him flat.

“Everyone does,” Rha said, “But not everyone can fight and keep their faith. I’m afraid that we’ve turned Ianite into a goddess of war and bloodshed, not balance.”

“What if the war and bloodshed is needed to keep the balance?” Sparklez asked. Rha’s hands stilled.

“You’ll probably be assigned to the farmland outside of the walls to start. Make sure the people do their jobs, that they do not steal from the farms, and that they don’t attack you or anyone else. If you see anyone acting suspiciously, or an executioner working with unnecessary cruelty, you report it or deal with it yourself. And if you need anything, ever, you can come talk to me.”

Sparklez let his forehead hit the table.

“Thank you, Rha,” he said, voice muffled by the table, “I will make our Goddess proud.”

Rha’s fingers brushed over the brand on his neck, Sparklez hissing in pain.

“I tell you this as certain as certain can be, She’s already proud.”

_“Oh, believe me,”_ Sparklez almost said, shutting his eyes, _“She isn’t. I fell into her world. I was a sailor, a stranger, a pirate. I sailed my boat, and I messed up, I crashed into her sea. And I sank. And I’m drowning, because it’s no longer her sea. There’s her no longer. I’m lost.”_

Instead, he fluttered his wings, stirring little clouds of chalk dust from the floor.

“Does she talk to you often?” Sparklez asked.

“No,” Rha said, “But I always feel her watching me.”

“She used to talk to me all the time,” Sparklez said, this time aloud, “I feel like I was closer to her before… some difficult times in my life.”

“That’s when She’s closest to us, Jordan.”

“Everyone says that.” Martha said that. Andor did, too. And yet. Guilt settled like a rock in his stomach.

“I suppose they do,” Rha said, absently, “I suppose they do.”

Sparklez wished for the brand to reignite itself, for the pain of the wings to come rushing back, for the ground to light up in purple or for purple to invade his mind, his skin, tell him what to do.

No. Nothing so grand. Just the feeling of whatever Rha was rubbing into the base of his wings, the stinging brand, and the cold, cold table.

It was cold against his chest.


	29. The Past and The Blade

“Where do you think Jordan is?” Tom asked just as Gijsbert returned from his one hour (which had become two hour) break. Jericho grunted, not listening

“Is he another friend of yours?” Gijsbert asked. Tom nodded, then paused.

“Your eyes are red- have you been crying, mate? You okay?”

Gijsbert’s face automatically returned to normal, the puffiness going away and replacing itself with his normal gaze.

“Allergies. They’re harvesting outside the walls.”

“How’d you just do that?”

“Magic. Shape shifting and thralling, together as one. Jericho, are you reading?”

Jericho set down the book he was reading.

“No,” he said smoothly. “Are you?”

Tom heard someone laugh. It was light, pretty, like the voice in his dream. He smiled down at the knife, feeling like a little kid who knew the biggest secret in the whole world. That Dianite was there, and that he hadn’t been killed by some strange, evil thing like what happened both times before.

“Don’t I have to be, you know, dreaming to hear you?” He whispered.

** _ The knife connects us. The sigil connects us. Doing this is… a little draining, but I’m not doing much else. _ **

Tom looked up from the knife, Tucker and Gijsbert standing at opposite sides of the room, Tucker by the door and Gijsbert standing by a target painted on the floor.

**_I know him,_** _Dianite whispered to him,_ **_my brother was very fond of his fiancé, and his fiancé’s mother._**

“Oh, that’s pretty cool,” Tom muttered to himself.

** _ A shame, really. A shame, a shame. _ **

“Uh,” Tom said, eloquent as always.

Tucker looked up from where he had been staring at his hands.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Tom said. “Wondering… what you’re doing. Yeah, what’re you doing?”

“Teleporting,” Jericho growled. “Now shut up, I have to focus.”

Tom shrugged, leaning back in his chair.

“I don’t know anyone here,” he said. “This city is so new, so beautiful… I’m scared to go outside. For it to fall apart like Ruxomar did since there’s no way that shit was a one time thing, and the shadows are, like, still a thing. My God, I’ve only been here three days, and I’m so worried about the world ending.”

The knife suddenly felt warm in his hands.

**_Yes, yes. I have heard their names. The creatures that writhe in the void, that go against all nature. Against me. Against us. Because you are the me that isn’t me, right Tom?_** _Dianite mused._

Tom’s thumb slipped, a deep gash cutting into it. He didn’t even flinch. Tucker waved his arms about, still not teleporting. Gijsbert was smiling at him, always so encouraging.

“No, no I’m not. Mot’s my double, and Dianite’s your double-“

**_And you are Dianite of another world, are you not?_** _Dianite reasoned,_ **_A title claimed when you ended his existence? So you are the me that isn’t me, my doppelgänger, my double._**

“Shut it,” Tom hissed. “And I had to kill him. I didn’t want to. He meant the world to me but he tried to hurt my friends-“

**_So you took his power and his place! Burned away the brush so life could grow anew!_** _Dianite laughed, light and beautiful, like a flower._

“No, no! Losing him was like-“

“Could you shut the fuck up?” Jericho snapped.

“Or what?” Tom teased back, trying to hide the building, bubbling emotion in his chest.

“Or I’ll knock your fucking lights out. Can’t you tell this is important? I’m trying to get us home.”

Tom stood, the chair knocked out underneath him, clattered against the floor.

“I’m not going back there.”

Jericho glared at him, hands clenched into fists at his side.

“You don’t have a fucking choice.”

“That place’s not my home,” Tom argued, clutching the handle of the knife desperately.

“Yes, it is!” Jericho screamed. There was a beat of silence.

“Home is where the heart is,” Tom tried to joke. “And I don’t have a heart.”

Jericho sighed. “Maybe you left it there.”

Tom looked over to Gijsbert, standing still, just watching.

“Why would I ever want to go back?” Tom said, tone low and level. “I like this world. Maybe this could be our home! We really don’t have to go back, and I don’t want to go back. Ever. And I think Jordan and James and Sonja would say the same.”

“Oh, would they?” Jericho inched closer, getting up in his face. “Sonja would listen to me. Wag has been miserable since he got here, and Sparklez is so whipped for Ianite that he’d go back just because she’s alive.”

“What about my god?” Tom asked, voice pathetically quiet.

** _ I’m right here, Tom._** _Dianite murmured comfortingly._

“No, not… I mean, back there, Dia’s dead, Tucker. I’d have nobody.”

“That’s a little… over dramatic,” Jericho said. “I mean, you’re the one who killed him?”

Without thinking, Tom raised the knife, ready to stab-

-And felt every single muscle in his body lock up. Jericho seemed to be experiencing the same way, motionless and straining.

“Can we be civilized, for the love of fuck?”

Gijsbert had them both thralled, his fingers moving ever so slightly, like he was pulling at the threads of a weave. Tom felt that straining, straining force, like the night he and Andor met Gijsbert, and like the first time, he felt it slide off of him like water off a duck. He lowered the knife, taking a few shaking steps back.

“How do you keep on doing that?” Gijsbert shouted in frustration. He was sweating.

“I don’t know,” Tom said. "But I’m gonna. I’m gonna go. Tucker, good luck, uh, bye. And um. See ya, short stack. Better luck next time.”

He vaulted over the desk he was sitting behind, ruffling Jericho’s hair as he stood there, frozen. Tom rushed out the door, letting it slam behind him, then ran out of the library, down the streets, running, running, running.

He couldn’t run from what he wanted to, though.

The blade of the knife felt hot.


	30. Interlude 4 (Flower)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tucker learns he needs to be gentle. Like a flower.

“What was that about?” Gijsbert asked.

Jericho didn’t even blink. With a flick of the wrist, he went limp, falling like a rag doll to the ground.

He sighed, collecting himself, slumping forward. “It’s just… Tom being Tom, I guess.”

“He’s always like that?”

Jericho nodded, standing up with a groan. Some of the tension of being thralled still lingered in his muscles, and he tried to rub it out of his neck.

“Uh. Sometimes, I guess. He tends to be…. overzealous? Am I using that word right?”

“I haven’t the slightest clue.” Gijsbert moved his hands around a little, the books on the shelves leaving their place, flying above his head. He started leafing through them.

“Do you think I can do this?” Jericho asked, “Get my friends and I home?”

Gijsbert’s hands stilled, as did the books around him.

“Magic is an art, like drawing or painting or writing,” he said, steadily. “It’s hard at first, but with practice, one can master it. If you force it, though, it won’t come.”

Jericho ran his hands over his face.

“Then how the fuck am I supposed to learn it? I try and I try and I try-"

“You try, and you try, and you try, but you do it while being gentle with yourself.”

Jericho scoffed. “I’m not some delicate little flower.”

Gijsbert scowled at him.

“Yes, you are. For now. You have to water a flower to get it to grow. Flowers don’t grow in a day. Yadda yadda yadda. I don’t know metaphors. But please, be gentle with yourself, you don’t have to get it perfected in one day, and you shouldn’t be mad at yourself if you can’t.”

“Can I try again?”

“Yes, you can.” Gijsbert put the books back in their shelves with a flick of his wrists.

Jericho looked down at his feet. Then, to the target on the floor. He let his eyes slip shut. Over there, gently, like being moved by a breeze. Free flowing, like a… fuck it. Like a flower moved in the breeze. Like a spider, blown by the wind off its web. Little petals of a flower.

His stomach flipped. The world felt hazy. His knees gave out, his whole body slamming against the ground. Slowly, he opened his eyes.

And there he was, curled in a ball atop the target.

He smiled…

…then vomited on himself, retching and writhing on the ground. His throat burned. Gijsbert set his hands on his face, a pulse of warmth going through them.

“Hey, it’s okay, you did it, you really did it. I don’t know whether to be proud or disgusted.”

Jericho gave a weak laugh, his muscles slowly relaxing from whatever magic Gijsbert used to calm him down.

He did it, he really did it.

He closed his eyes again, and in his imagination he could see their home again, one step closer.

One step closer.


	31. Cloak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andor dedicates himself to making a change, starting by blending in.

His hair felt different. Unwashed, certainly, rough instead of how soft it used to be. She ran her fingers through them nonetheless, careful not to disturb his sleep.

Martha watched Andor land right in front of the Inn, taking only a second to collect himself before bursting through the doors. Then running footsteps up the stairs, and Andor burst through the door.

“Martha, Auntie, do you have a cape or a cloak I could borrow? Something to cover my wings?”

“Quietly, Andor,” she whispered. “Wag’s asleep.”

“Really?” He stage whispered, “Still?”

Martha’s hand froze in his hair.

“Yes. What do you need a cape for?”

Andor’s face lit up, and Martha felt a pang of nostalgia. She hadn’t seen him that happy since he was a boy, really. Throwing his boomerang off the pier, waiting for it to come back. Watching the ships.

“I want to help the people outside of the walls. I’ll need them to trust me, and they associate wings with executioners… I want there to be true balance- justice, too. It must be done, and this Ianite doesn’t seem to keen on doing it. But I feel her, my grandmother, she’s with me, she wants me to do something. I think. If she isn’t, then I think it’s just me, I want to do something. Make it better. Vatredas is an echo of my kingdom, and this time I want to make things right.”

She stood, wrapping Andor tightly in her arms. The wings still got in the way, just like when they were purple, but he folded them tight to his back, squeezing her back. His shoulders shook with a sob, and Martha wished she could do more, do something more.

He pulled away from the hug, smiling, face just a little wet with tears. Martha reached out, searching for her magic, and pulling, pulling. A burst of lilac light fluttered through the air, weaving in on itself, wrapping and twisting, forming itself into a pale yellow cloak that draped and swished where it hung in the air.

Martha gently took it from the air, the fabric light and still crackling with magic. A pattern of flowers was embroidered into the front, running down the collar and the edge of the cloak and around the loose sleeves. Ianite always loved her flowers….

She passed it to Andor, who held it reverently, like the most precious thing in the whole wide world. He slipped it on, putting his arms through, the hem brushing the ground. He spun around, letting it billow about him, his wings completely invisible underneath them. Martha smiled, feeling just a little drained, letting herself sit back down on the bed Wag slept on.

Andor faced her, smile so, so wide.

“Thank you, auntie. Thank you so much.”

Martha smiled, nodding.

“You’re a good man, Andor. I’m very proud of you. Very, very proud,” She sighed, wiping her face free from tears. Helgrind would be proud of the man his son was, too, but she knew if she mentioned him they’d both start crying even harder than they already were. Balance was what this world needed, and Andor could bring that. She knew he could.

In a flurry of yellow and flowers, Andor rushed out the door, then down the stairs, on a mission to change the world.

Martha watched him go.


	32. Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sonja and Lev finally arrive at Vatredas.

After the river, there was nothing but forest, miles and miles of forest between them and Vatredas.

A weeks worth of forest, to be accurate. A full week. Well, a week and three days, but those first three days weren’t anything compared to the long days of traveling they went through. Packing at sunrise, making camp at sunset. It was grueling, but efficient, and honestly sort of fun. The aches in her legs and back kept her comfortably distracted from her friends.

If Tom was the same Tom, the town would be half razed, Tucker trying to put the pieces back together or joining in on the mischief. Wag would go find something magic, Martha would stay Martha, and Andor would… do something. They discussed friends over the campfires. Lev and her both agreed that Sparklez would probably have done something stupid for Ianite by now.

Lev didn’t talk much about what their life was before they started traveling, all she knew about them was that their father was in prison, and that they were going to meet someone. Vague, not enough to trust someone from, but Lev probably didn’t trust her either. Not fully, at least.

Especially not after the thing with the spiders at the river. They didn’t talk about that.

The thought of all those little white spiders bridging the river crossed her mind for the eighth time that day when she looked up. No more trees on the horizon. Only farmland- low and level, a few homes clustered in a few small villages.

“Is that it?” Sonja asked.

Lev frowned.

“Big as fuck city with a wall and farmland? Yes. That’s Vatredas.” They cracked their neck.

“Let’s get to walking,” Sonja decided, “I think we can make it there before dusk.”

Lev nodded, face still cold.

They did, in fact, get there before dusk, walking through the woods in silence. Sonja couldn’t help but feel anxious about her friends, and god knows what Lev was worrying about.

Just as the sun was starting to set, the forest ground turned to a road of gravel, unkempt and messy around the edges, fields stretching out as far as the eye could see. Over the wall, Sonja could see tall, rich buildings, quickly hiding under the wall as they got closer to the village. Same gravel roads, same small, old houses and shops she saw on the horizon. The buildings were all in some sort of disrepair, air reeking of earth and rot.

The people walking past wore dull, simple clothing, not even sparing them glances as they walked. The only ones who looked well off were what Sonja assumed were guards, clad in shining armor, wearing what looked like feathery cloaks- no, those were wings.

“This is Vatredas?” Sonja whispered to Lev. Lev nodded.

“Outside of the wall, at least. The person I meet is inside of them… is that-"

They were cut off by someone suddenly slamming into them, lifting Lev off the ground and spinning him around, laughing. Finally, she set them down-

“Anya?” Lev asked, stunned, “You’re still alive?”

The woman- Anya- laughed. She was short, with black hair cropped close to her scalp, cream colored dress standing out against her dark skin.

“I could ask the same of you!” She cried, taking Lev's hands in her own, “I thought you were dead! Another miracle! Oh, you’ve missed so much- ol' Gerta died two springs ago, and guess who’s in charge of the bar now? Me! Oh, it’s just how I dreamed it to be. I missed you so much, Lev. Who’s your friend?”

“Uh,” Sonja said, “I’m Sonja, I’m here to meet some friends of mine in the city-“

“So am I,” Lev interrupted, “Here to find a man my, er, father sent me to find.”

Anya’s face fell. She squeezed Lev’s hands in her own, then forced a smile.

“Well, you can at least stay the night here. Go search in the morning. There is someone, actually, that I’d like you both to meet! He is a delight, a real… voice, if you know what I mean.”

“Another revolutionary,” Lev sighed. “We can’t do anything until, you know, my father is out of prison. I have to deal with my… er, um-“

“Aunt?” Anya suggested. Lev nodded. Sonja felt she was missing something.

“Yes. Aunt. I’ll meet this new voice, but first, a drink.”

“That sounds perfect,” Sonja said. Anya seemed nice, and if not nice was at least very welcoming. And very pretty. As much as every part of her wanted to go inside the walls, find her friends and get to see them again, traveling in the dark never ever ended well.

Anya started walking away, leading Lev by the hand through the roads, which were starting to become emptier and emptier. Silently, she prayed to Mianite.

_I’m here now. They’re here, right? I need to know they’re here. That they’re safe. Please._

They stopped in front of what Sonja assumed was the bar, cracked windows leaking light and sound out into the street. Sonja checked her arms for spiders. No, nothing. Anya opened the door, the three of them making their way inside.

Sonja closed the door behind them, hit with a wave of sound and the stench of alcohol. She sat at the bar next to Lev, watching absentmindedly as Anya started filling chipped glass mugs with frothy ale, fluttering about the bar like a butterfly.

“Don’t worry,” Lev whispered, putting their hand on her shoulder, “Your friends will be fine. Tomorrow we search, and… Sonja? I’m glad I met you. You are remarkable.”

Sonja smiled, looking away.

“You’re pretty remarkable too, Lev.”

Lev pat her shoulder, then pulled their hand away. Sonja stared out the window, catching the last wisps of sunset before darkness.

She wished the sun would rise already.


	33. Callback

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tucker offhandedly mentions the Shadows. Gijsbert's reaction doesn't bode well.

“_Again, Jericho_,” he could almost hear Gijsbert say. Impossible, he knew, since he was outside of the library, in the middle of the crowd of people. He looked odd in his simple clothes compared to the lavish ones of those around him.

Tucker huffed, since that’s all he could do, forcing his muscles to relax. The week had passed so slowly, training day in and day out. Gijsbert let him stay in a cot in his study, since he was too scared to go back to Ladia’s, the warning she whispered still dangerous and hot in his ear. But he’d made progress. He could teleport without vomiting (mostly), and now Gijsbert was telling him to focus on distance.

And what a strange man Gijsbert was. Always so bright, happy, filled with jokes. A comforting constant that took everything in stride, falling from the sky, the past gods.

He sighed. The sunset was red, orange as her hair… God, he hoped Sonja was okay. He closed his eyes.

Flower petals, flowing breeze- darkness, then coming back to the world. The top floor of the library, Gijsbert’s study, where he’d spent the past week, really, except when Tom came to drag him away from it. Tom hadn’t visited in a day or two, and Jordan hadn’t been around for the entirety of the week. Maybe they didn’t know where he was. A part of him wanted them not to know.

His fingers twitched. Bile spiked in his throat, but he swallowed it down, settling against the desk to try to stay upright. This was fine.

“So what was the first world like?” Gijsbert asked, sitting peacefully at his desk. Jericho couldn’t help but jump, clasping his hand over his heart as it processed.

“Uh,” Jericho panted, swallowing again, “A savanna, mostly. It was an island. We all had houses there- not so happy neighbors, really, we fought a lot. So much we made up an event thing so we could fight. I won a lot.”

“Really now?” Gijsbert said, amused, “You must be very, very strong.”

“I am,” Jericho joked, flexing his arms. “But besides all that, there doesn’t seem to be much different, besides the fact there aren’t any Shadows.”

Gijsbert’s breath caught.

“You okay?” Jericho asked, lowering his arms.

“Yes,” Gijsbert chirped, “All fine!”

“Horseshit, you’re scared of the Shadows. Are there Shadows here?”

Gijsbert looked pale and nervous, gnawing his lip. If there were Shadows here, then what did that mean for them? For this universe? He leaned over the desk, fingers digging into the wood.

“Gijsbert, please. Tell me.”

“Not now, Jericho,” he pleaded, voice thick, “Tomorrow.”

Jericho opened his mouth to say something, words falling flat on his tongue as he saw Gijsbert, eyes red and filled to the brim with tears. He looked away, guilt making his cheeks burn.

“Fine,” he said, “But tomorrow you’re telling me everything.”

Gijsbert nodded, wiping his face, and Jericho closed his eyes.

Flower petal.

He opened his eyes, in the streets of Vatredas, disoriented and twitching. But still he ran through the streets, stumbling and unsure.

He had to tell Tom.

The wall cast a shadow upon the city, drowning in the orange sunset.


	34. The Scales of Balance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andor makes a speech.

Sonja was thirsty, but couldn’t bring herself to drink. Alcohol didn’t sound particularly nice. The bar was alight, filling with more and more people as the night became darker. The air smelt like alcohol, filled with noise and conversation. Lev talked to Anya next to her in what Sonja assumed was their first language, face obscured by their hood but tone very, very happy and bright.

She turned away from the bar, looking out at the rest of the people. Some drank cheerily, dirty faces all smiles, others sitting solemn, drinking and exchanging nervous glances to one another. She was just about to lean over, ask Lev what they had to be worried about, when Anya left from behind the bar, shutting the curtains at every window. Lev frowned, watching Anya flutter about, the noise becoming quieter and quieter with every curtain closed, until every eye was on Anya. She stood on a table.

Anya cleared her throat, and the room fell silent.

“I need no introduction,” she said, a couple people laughing. “You all know me. We might’ve worked together in the fields. We might’ve been neighbors, or are still neighbors. Or, you just know me as the barkeep. Or, as the only person in Vatredas who seems to be interested in making change, improving our lives and enforcing the balance our Lady Ianite holds dear, that the executioners and priests are supposed to uphold, but twist to their own advantage!”

The people in the bar clapped, smacked tables, whooped. Sonja found herself smiling along. Oh, Sparklez would love her. The bar quieted down again.

“There is someone new, someone who shares in all our passions, who wished to speak. He’s new in town, so be gentle on him. This one needs an introduction-“

A man in a yellow cloak stood, smiling awkwardly. Sonja’s heart caught in her chest.

“Andor,” Anya said.

_Andor?!?_

He stepped up, taking Anya’s place on the table. He almost blended in, pale yellow cloak alike to the loose work shirts the people wore, but the stitching along the sleeves and hem gave it away as something just a little too fine. His face was tan and dirty, a little stubble growing on his jaw and hair curly and unkempt. Andor, looked like a deer in the headlights. He coughed, fidgeting uncomfortably.

“My name is Andor, as Anya said. I’m not from around here, I’ve not seen this city in full, I’ve not lived the lives you’ve lived. I’ve… I’m nothing, though. No prince, no farmer, no master orator. I am Andor, but here I am. Speaking with all the courage I have.”

Sonja suddenly felt a rush of salty air brush her face, could hear the cold voice of Lieutenant Al, back on the docks the day Andor was taken to Inertia. She clasped her own hand, digging her nails into her wrist. Andor took a deep breath.

“And it’s not a lot. But I am not blind, nor am I foolish, foolish enough to see this town as anything but a spit in the face to Ianite- to not only balance, but justice. The actions these people are taking in Ianite’s name… they can’t be her will. They’re not.”

He took a deep breath.

“I know so many people who have done horrible things in the name of the gods that they worship, without even knowing what they stand for. The hypocrisy of working in the name of a god and going against them so blatantly sickens me. And rightfully so."

The bar was silent, totally enraptured. A light breeze was starting to blow through, every trace of nervousness gone from Andor.

“Is this Ianite’s will? To sow all the seed yet reap nothing? To go dirty and hungry, divided by this wall around the city? Guards patrol these streets in the name of Ianite. They slaughter her name with every step they take, with every single person they take away. Balance must be restored! Justice must be done! If not for Ianite, then for yourselves, for your families, your friends, your very lives! And if you’re not a part of this, this change, this restoration, I-“

The door shuddered. The lock slipped open. Sonja stood, giving a nervous look to Lev, then Anya, then Andor. Then the person who came through the door.

In the darkness of the night, illuminated only by the dull candle light of the bar, was Jordan. He wasn’t wearing his sunglasses, and behind him two massive black-white wings, trembling ever so slightly.

“An executioner,” Lev whispered to her. They raised a hand to their face, as if about to unwrap their bandages. Sonja looked away, back to Sparklez.

He saw Andor, hand freezing on the hilt of his sword. Andor stood completely still, face locked in a chilling expression of cold determination. Time froze like the ice across the river, the air still shifting around them, restless and uncontrollable.

Andor raised his hand up slowly, pointing at Sparklez.

“I invite you.”

A wind crashed through the bar, Andor’s hair and cloak rippling around him. Candlelight flickered. Sparklez staggered back, eyes wide and face unreadable- no, it was familiar. Scared. He staggered back out of the door, stumbling into the street. Without another thought, Sonja grabbed Lev’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze, and pushed through the crowd of stunned onlookers, out the door, and into the street.

Sparklez was running away, bulky wings on his back like a flare in the night.

“Oh, Sparklez,” she whispered to herself. “What did you do now?”

She broke out into a sprint, chasing Jordan into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((As an editor's note, I want to throw a quick shout out to the original Andor Speech from S2. There was a homage to that with the line "I invite you." ;) ))


	35. Starry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tucker wants every one to take the threat of the Shadows seriously. Tom just wants to enjoy the now.

Jericho threw the door to the Inn open, making eye contract with Tom, who was behind the bar, polishing a glass.

“Hey Tucker! Look! I’m a fuckin' bartender.”

Tucker looked at the nearly empty room. A man was passed out, head on the table, a glass of… something in his hand. There were little particles floating in it, like stars in the sky. Jericho picked it up, sniffing it. Gingerly, he sipped it, the strong taste overwhelming and disgusting, burning his mouth. Ew. He set it down, debating if the bad drink was a zombie thing or a Tom thing. Probably both.

“Alright. Where’s everyone else? I need to tell them something. And why are you-“

“Ladia asked me to help clean up a little. So I did! I found a really cool looking rock, and it’s mine now. But the guy came in asking for a drink so I got him one!”

Jericho ran his hands over his face.

“Look, where’s Wag? Where’s Sparklez? Martha? Dianite? Mot?”

Tom set the glass down.

“What’s got your panties in a twist?”

“Where are they.”

Tom raised his hands in defeat, staring at the ceiling, thinking.

“Sleeping, I don’t know, probably with Ladia, new house.”

“New house?”

“Yeah, Dia and Mot got a house in the city.”

“With what money?!?!”

“Oh, they’re like, super fucking rich now.”

“Since when???”

Tom shrugged, “Dunno? They mentioned a bet of some sort a week ago, and now they’ve got a goddamn house.”

“Why was I never told about this?!?”

Tom jumped over the bar, nearly hitting the ceiling, landing without an ounce of grace.

“Because you were too busy getting dicked down by that wizard bitch. I can’t pronounce his name.”

Jericho flushed bright red, smacking Tom over the head.

“That’s not what we’re doing, and his name is Gijsbert. I need to tell you something.”

“That you’re fucking the wizard? I knew it! You’re traitoring all of us for wizard co-“

Jericho shoved him, Tom cackling. “No! Not that! Jesus, Tom!”

“Then what is it?”

“Stop interrupting me!” Jericho cried. Tom blinked owlishly. He was wearing a little leather sheath around his waist for that knife he got, thank god.

“I’m not doing anything,” he said with the tone of a man who knew he was doing something.

“Well-“

“It’s not my fault you talk so slow!”

“If you would just-“

“Come on, spill the beans. But it can’t be that bad-“

“There are Shadows here.”

Tom shut his jaw with a click. His hand went to the knife on his hip. His green skin seemed just a little paler, if that was even possible.

“Like that Historian dude?” He whispered, “And the guys from the first island?”

Jericho nodded.

“We got to go tell them. Come on- follow me, I know where they live. Dia and Mot, I mean.”

Tom pushed past him and out of the bar, into the night enveloping Vatredas.

—

“It’s fucking locked?” Jericho whined. Tom shot him a glare from where he kneeled by the lock. He had two sticks he found in the ground and sharpened to thin, sharp points with his knife. Unsurprisingly, they made piss poor lock picks. The house looked lovely, Jericho had to admit, stone brick and some sort of dark wood- it almost looked like a Dianite version of Martha’s old house, except just a little more compact.

Tom leaned back from the lock, studying it with the gaze of a man who has never picked a lock before. That is to say, confused.

“I could kick it down,” he offered.

Jericho groaned, took a few steps backwards, cracking his neck. “Alright, I’m gonna do something, do me a favor and don’t scream.”

Tom looked up from the lock, face utterly confused, and not just from the lock.

Jericho waved his hand to shut him up, and thought of being on the inside of that door. A little flower petal slipping through the cracks of door. Swirling, slipping, then on the inside… The world swirled around him. He opened his eyes.

The foyer (was it called a foyer?) was just as nice as the outside, lit by lanterns and some strange orbs that floated in the air- probably magic. Not much tech in this universe, it seemed. He turned towards the door, undid the lock, and swung it open. Tom gaped at him, somehow more confused looking.

“You fuckin'-?”

Jericho waved his hand.

“It’s nothing. Um. Let’s go.”

“It’s not nothing! You! You fuckin! Wizard!!!”

“Come on, Tom, this is important!”

“Yeah! You teleported for the love of- how??”

Jericho covered his face with his hands, took a deep breath, then sighed.

“Let’s tell them,” Jericho said, “And then I’ll explain.”

Tom nodded, shakily standing up from outside the door.

“Yeah, you owe me an explanation.”

Heavy footsteps came from down the hall. Jericho whipped around, and there Dianite was, soaking wet, in nothing but a loosely tied bathrobe.

“I believe I’m owed an explanation as well,” Dianite cooed.

“Jericho can teleport!” Tom blurted. Dianite raised an eyebrow, opening his mouth to say something, but Jericho quickly interrupted.

“There are Shadows here,” he said.

Dianite’s face fell. He looked grim, as grim as one look while wearing a bathrobe.

“Then you both best make yourself at home. We have much to discuss.”

—

They ended up in the kitchen. Dianite made the three of them coffee, hot and fresh. It tasted nothing like the crap Gijsbert made, black and sour without sugar or cream. The fact it was warm instead of cold with disinterest (more like forgetfulness) made it just a little better.

Jericho took another sip.

“I don’t know much. All I know, really, is that they’re here. And they were in the first world as well, and… they’re bad news. Gijsbert is supposed to tell me more tomorrow. I’d like you to be there, since you, uh, know them.”

Dianite sighed.

“I don’t have my powers, Joshua.”

“It’s Jericho.”

“…Never mind. I don’t have my magic. Can’t summon things, fly, anything. Still got my moxy, so does Mot… Tom,” Jericho sighed as Dianite turned to him, feeling the conversation start to go off it’s rails, “Do you know what size ring Mot wears?”

Tom shrugged, “Size 8? Mans got tiny hands.” He sipped his coffee.

“Good. I’m going to ask him to marry me.”

“Fun.” Tom said, taking another sip.

Dianite and Jericho made eye contact.

Tom spat out his coffee in shock, the words finally sinking in. He spilled it on himself, shreiking and cursing as he set the mug on the table, jolting out of the table and jumping in place. Jericho tilted his head, unable to tell if it was from pain or excitement.

“MARRY?”

“Tom, calm down.“ Jericho tried. Dianite was chuckling, the bastard.

“CALM DOWN? OH MY GOD!!!! OH MY YOU!”

“Tom, please,”

“HOLY SHIT! CAN I BE A FLOWER BOY? CAN WE BE FLOWER BOYS?”

“Tom, the Shadows-“

“Actually,” Dianite said smoothly, “I was thinking you’d be my best man, Tom.”

Tom let out a wordless screech and Dianite laughed, hardy and happy.

“Alright, boyo. Keep it a secret. And Jericho?”

Jericho straightened up in his seat.

“Yes?”

“Let’s wait until tomorrow to discuss the Shadows. We needn’t jump in head first while still uninformed. Now then,” he stood, speaking with an air of formality, “Both of you, out. I have a bath to get back to.”

Jericho bit his lip, irritated beyond belief, but said nothing. If only he could’ve gotten Gijsbert to talk-

“Tomorrow, yeah, alright, sounds good.”

Jericho stood, knocking back the rest of his coffee like a shot, and walked to the door, Tom buzzing around him like a loud and coffee scented fly. He spoke in a rush, too fast to catch-

“Where are you going?”

Jericho sighed, almost sounding like a growl.

“Back to the library. Or the Inn. I need to sleep.”

“How can you sleep?” Tom shouted, “Isn’t that amazing news!?!”

“Look, man, I just want it to be tomorrow already.”

Tom nodded, a little too frantic, taking Jericho by the wrist.

“Then stay up a little later, with me. The sun will rise when it rises but- look!” He gestured broadly to the sky, “It’s a nice night! All those stars!”

Jericho didn’t look at the sky, instead staring at the horizon. The sun would rise, eventually, and sunrise would destroy the black water of the sky. He slipped his wrist from Tom’s hold, watching as he stared at the sky, as if it would always be there, as if it would always be a glittering, golden night filled with stars.

He looked away from the sky. Staring at Jericho with a small, hopeful smile. Jericho shook his head.

They walked in silence back to the inn.


	36. Interlude 5- recording

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deviser Gaines starts a recording.

**[BEGIN RECORDING]**

[A rustling, static. The speaker clears his voice, then mutters a brief verse of prayer. He clears his voice again.]

Speaker: Hello. This thing on? Sound check? Uranium, Uranium… good. Uh. Okay! Looks like it’s working.

[The speaker taps the recorder. The static fizzles.]

Speaker: Great! Log one of… who knows. It’s been a week since I left Vatredas. Much has changed since I was a boy, it seems. Goodness. I only went to Vatredas once, when I was a boy, and it was still mostly farmland. Seeing those buildings stole my breath. But, I knew I had to go. I… scraped by a bit of coin, not enough for a horse, but enough for a pair of walking boots. Mianite be praised, I prayed for time to get out of the house and into the ‘great outdoors… ‘

[The speaker laughs, then coughs. He sighs.]

Speaker: There’s so much more woods, it seems. And so much less industry in Vatredas. I guess they decided magic was the best way to go about things… oh, crossing the border will be a nightmare…. Never mind. My compass seems to work, heading southwest, as I have been for a week. Everything hurts. I don’t know how close I am to Cypra. I can only hope that they’re still there. My designs, I mean. Anything else would be a bonus. I was spoiled, back in Ruxomar. All that tech…

[The speaker sighs. Shifting- the recorder moves. The sound of static gives way to the sound of a crackling fire, insects flying in the air.]

Speaker: It’s too dark to travel now. Uh. I’ll start doing these… bi-weekly. I don’t know how much memory’s on this thing, I’m lucky it didn’t break with my fall. I wonder if Jordan… Never mind. May Mianite protect me in all my endeavors, and bring me safely back home. Signing out, Deviser Gaines.

**[END RECORDING]**


	37. Forest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sonja hunts down Jordan. Jordan continues to run from everything- his feelings, the truth, Sonja.

Gravel got in his shoes. He kept running. The wings on his back were a heavy, useless anchor- too weak to fly with. Even spreading them hurt. He’d learned that in the week he had had them. Big wings take long to heal, Rha said. He also learned he couldn’t beat any of the other executioners in any of the games they played- all games of luck. At least he told himself.

He also learned he didn’t have the stomach to be an executioner.

Andor, that blustering voice. He’d grown. Sparklez looked over his shoulder. Someone was chasing him. A blur of red-orange in the night. He spread his wings, trying to take flight, but they were too heavy, too weak. Almost falling, he tucked them against his back, fighting against the burning in his muscles. He ran, and ran, and ran…

He came to a part of the village that was unfamiliar, sat right on the outskirts. His legs burned. He stopped, hands on his knees and panting for air, wheezing as he took in the buildings around him. Most of them were burned husks, old and overgrown with vines and moss. A flower grew in the dirt by his feet. Oh, the portion of the village burned by executioners. Great. He wheezed.

Footsteps got closer. He didn’t move, bent double until a hand grabbed him, yanking him upright. Without protest, he straightened up, hands limp and loose at his side as he faced the person chasing him, a flurry of red hair-

He stared. His jaw dropped, eyes filling with tears.

“Sonja?” He whispered hoarsely.

Sonja nodded, smiling bright as the moon, her hands on his shoulders. In one strong movement, he wrapped his arms around her in a tight, crushing hug, Sonja’s arms almost painfully wrapped around his wings, but still comforting nonetheless.

“Yeah,” she whispered in his ear, slowly rocking them back and forth, back and forth, “It’s me, it’s me. God, what have I missed?”

“A lot,” Sparklez choked out, burying his head in her shoulder, “You’ve missed a lot. I thought you were dead- we all did. Where were you?”

Sonja laughed, he felt it against his chest. “A week’s worth of walking away, that’s where I was. My legs are probably jacked from the nonstop leg day.”

Sparklez chuckled despite himself, finally pulling out of the hug.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he whispered. Sonja nodded, looking at the village around them. A rush of shame hit him like a truck.

“This wasn’t me-“

“I was just about to ask about the, er, wings? You’re an executioner?”

Sparklez nodded, not knowing shame could burn so much. He looked at the houses and the ground on his feet, ash all around.

“I wanted to be closer to my Lady,” he said, but that only scratched the tip of the iceberg, didn’t it?

Sonja stepped back, face unreadable.

“Your Lady doesn’t seem that friendly here, Jordan.”

“She’s still my Lady.”

“You keep telling yourself that-“

“She is!” He desperately cried. Sonja just looked at him, didn’t even react.

She opened her mouth, shut it again.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. Jordan wiped his face with his hand.

“Everyone else is in the city, check the Cinnamon Grove Inn. A woman named Ladia’s the owner. And tell everyone…” he wiped his face again, “Tell everyone I’m okay, but not to come looking for me.”

A beat of silence trapped them like a spiders web.

“That’s ridiculous,” Sonja snapped, “You can’t blindly follow someone.”

“Yes, and that means a lot coming from you,” he sarcastically drawled.

“It should, because I knew when to stop listening to Mianite.”

“And you say I should betray Ianite? She’s my Lady! I’ve done everything I could to save her, and now I finally have a chance to follow her, do right by her, be seen in a good light-“

He couldn’t find the right words. He waved his arms about, stuttering uselessly, starting, stopping, like a broken engine, an exhaust of shame and anger building and building from not just this, but four years, four years-

Jordan didn’t say a word.

“I’m going to find the others tomorrow,” Sonja declared, steady and calm, as if she was trying to talk to a dog, “I want you to do the right thing. Come with me. You can talk to Andor, work this whole situation out… why did you run?”

Sparklez fluttered his wings uselessly. His legs screamed their protest against him along with his feet, four years of doing nothing but falling catching up to him. All the tolerance for pain he had, gone.

“I didn’t want a repeat of last time, you know.” Sparklez admitted, the shame crashing down onto him once more. “I didn’t want to be the one to… yeah. You should go.”

Sonja reached out to touch his shoulder. He jerked away.

“Yeah,” Sonja said, “I should. But Sparklez, this isn’t you. Come back with me. Please.”

Sparklez shook his head. Sonja’s face fell, her hands balling into fists at her sides. Without another word she turned and ran, back to the bar and Andor and the revolution.

Shaking like a leaf, Sparklez lowered himself to the ground. He pulled his knees up to his chest, letting out a low sob. Desperate, he cocooned himself in his wings and listened, listened, listened.

All he heard was the chittering, taunting sound of owls and bugs in the night.


	38. The North Star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom wants to live like the world isn't constantly in danger. The world does nothing to help him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For @bootwriting on tumblr, who asked for some angsty Mecha-Dianite stuff for their prize for winning the 30 follower drawing. Enjoy!

Oh, the stars. How he had missed them! Even after 10 nights, his breath caught in his chest whenever he looked up and saw them instead of the black nothing they had been falling from. Each one, impossibly old and glimmering, little embers against a slate of pure, obsidian black. Lamps hung from posts on every corner of the street, but they couldn’t even come close to outshining the stars. Jericho just didn’t see it, didn’t care for the stars. On the first island, the only star that mattered to him was their North Star- a hunk of dirt hung in the air. Did they ever change it to glowstone, like Sparklez suggested? He turned to Jericho to ask-

-To find nobody there. Just the empty space he left.

“Fuck the Shadows,” he mumbled to himself, “Fucking fuck them. Every single one of them!”

There was no response. Not even the bugs made noise.

“YOU HEAR ME?” He screamed into the darkness, “FUCK YOU!”

Nothing.

Quietly, he unsheathed his knife, putting the blade against his palm, letting his feet carry him through empty cobble streets.

“Dia,” he whispered, “Are you there?”

The blade warmed.

** _ I’m always here. Is everything alright? _ **

“What are the Shadows?”

**_Cold,_** _Dianite whispered,_ **_I will not say anything more. I dare not to._**

Tom groaned in frustration, almost stabbing himself in the face as he covered his eyes with his hands, knife still comfortingly warm.

_Dianite laughed._ **_I thought you’d know. Being me, after all._**

Tom froze.

“I’m not you.”

** _ Yes, you are. I can feel it on your skin, under your skin, running through every piece of you. That power, my power, our power. Like looking into a mirror. Why else would Gijsbert not be able to keep you in his thrall? _ **

“I’m not,” he stubbornly huffed, “I didn’t want to kill him, I had to. If I hadn’t killed him then we wouldn’t‘ve gotten the key and all that stuff and we needed it-“

** _ -so your friends made you kill him? _ **

He started walking again.

“No. I killed him for my friends.”

** _ Do you miss him? _ **

Tom looked back up at the stars. He imagined each one of them going black and dead, one by one by one, until the sky was a sheet of shadows and nothing more. Jericho was starting to rub off on him. Not seeing the beauty in the stars or the day, just the fear of their destruction. Maybe he wouldn’t be so afraid if it wasn’t always at risk, with the shadows, and before that…

Tom looked down, noticing his feet had carried him to the Cinnamon Grove Inn. He opened the door, walking up the stairs, to the room with their beds. Sleep suddenly sounded very, very good. He slipped the knife in its sheath.

Wag and Jericho were sat on the floor, Wag hunched and cloaked in his robes, Jericho’s face still hard set in frustration.

“Jericho,” Tom said, voice pathetically weak, “Do you really think the world's going to end?”

Their eyes met. Wag coughed.

“The Shadows are a danger to this world and every world.”

“You don’t know that.”

Jericho furrowed his brows. “The fuck do you mean I don’t know? World Historian? The Shadows in the first island?”

Tom sat on one of the beds, taking the knife back out and running his thumb over the blade, trying to memorize the runes.

“Dianite was different last time, maybe the Shadows could be… good.”

Jericho guffawed, Wag turning to Tom and lowering his hood.

“I’d say we’re safer assuming they’re dangerous,” Wag said, tone measured.

“Yeah,” Jericho added, “I just want to kick some Shadow ass, save the universe, then get back home. I can already see the savanna.”

The room went silent.

“I thought I told you,” Tom whispered, “I’m not going back there. Not in a million fucking years.”

“Oh horseshit,” Jericho quipped, “Just Because Dianite isn’t there? Man, he was worse than the Shadows. Imprisoning Ianite and shit, Nadeshot- he was the literal worst.”

Tom opened his mouth. He shut it. The words weren’t coming, but he could feel his chest bubble with emotion. He opened his mouth and let it out.

“Dianite… Dianite was always there. Reliable. My god, my Lord. Pulling that bowstring. The arrow brushing my cheek. Letting it fly. Watching it sink into his flesh…” he trailed off, voice dying into a whisper.

“And that last look Dianite gave me before he… died was pure sadness. Betrayed. The… the rush of power felt like nothing compared to the look on his face when he fell, died, left nothing but a few items and a puff of smoke. There wasn’t even a body.

“I didn’t get to say goodbye, either. Or at least thank you. Or bury him, make a grave. Nothing that I could convince himself was closure in the slightest, unless you count all the falling as closure.”

He tried to take a deep breath.

“Dianite is still with me, though.”

“Tom-“

“I’m not finished. Dianite… No, no he isn’t. I’m Dianite, I took his place and his power and left nothing of him, destroyed him and betrayed him and broke his heart and Ruxomar was different because Dianite was different but I hadn’t changed and even if we did go back I would have nothing, nothing, nothing at all-“

He slapped his hand over his mouth.

Jericho was looking at him funny. He stood from the bed, crossed the room to Tom.

“You’re crying,” he said, brows furrowing. Tom wiped at his face, feeling his eyes were in fact wet. Quickly, he pulled up the neck of his shirt, trying to wipe his eyes dry.

“No shit,” Wag whispered, standing up, “He lost his god, Tucker. It would be like if you lost Mianite, or when Sparklez lost Ianite.”

Jericho looked at him, realization crashing over his face, all the things Tom said sinking in.

He looked down at his feet.

“I’m… I’m so sorry.”

Tom held his breath.

Jericho threw his arms around him, wrapping him in a hug, arms around his shoulders, making him feel small, hands pinned to his sides so he couldn’t break free, wipe his face, run away.

Wag joined the hug, his grip weaker than Jericho’s, but still there.

It was only then that Tom realized he was sobbing like a child, breaths shuddering and shaking, hands balled in the fabric of Jericho’s coat. He wished he could give Dianite a hug- the first one- but that would mean wrapping his arms around himself and wishing for some comfort that wouldn’t come.

“I’m not going back there,” he sobbed, “It’s… it’s not my home.”

Jericho squeezed tighter.

The knife was warm against his hip.

“I think,” Wag whispered, “That as long as all of us are here, it’s home. Tom,”

He gently swayed, like the waves of some distant ocean lapping against the shore, welcoming him, them, all of them, to a new world.

And the North Star that hung in the sky, a stubborn chunk of earth suspended by nothing, would always guide them home.


	39. Morning Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tucker gets the details on the Shadows. It does not make him feel any better.

Jericho didn’t sleep well that night. He slept like a kid on Christmas Eve.

Well, more like a kid who didn’t study for an important test.

Both, maybe. A bubbling mixture of excitement and dread that made his head ache until he finally went to bed, dreaming of Gijsbert and Tom and Home and Sonja and the Shadows.

He woke before the sun rose, then spent an hour tossing and turning in the dark of the room, trying to fall back asleep to the sound of night wind and insects chattering outside, the rhythmic noise of Wag’s breathing. But sleep wouldn’t come, the thoughts in his head persistent and loud, eyes locked open and set on the ceiling. How could he dread and anticipate something so much?

Giving up on getting sleep, he sat up, carefully dressing and putting on his shoes, before slipping out the door, not even sparing a glance to his sleeping friends. In the hallway, the doors of the other rooms were shut, but downstairs, something was cooking. Ladia was behind the bar already, something steaming in the kitchen. He walked quickly through the room, Ladia’s eyes cold on his back.

“You’re up early,” She observed.

Jericho shrugged, “I have someone to meet.”

“This early?” Ladia said, “Have you even eaten?”

Ignoring her, he opened the door, and slipped into the empty streets. It didn’t take long for him to reach Dianite’s house. It looked different in the morning, somehow grander in the orange sunrise. With a nearly effortless thought, he was inside, in that big, open foyer. The lights were dimmer, but there was still noise from the kitchen, like yesterday, the smell of coffee strong in the air. Slowly, he slipped into the kitchen. Dianite was at the table, papers and empty coffee mugs covering the entire surface. His hair was a mess, hanging in his face, the top buttons of his shirt open.

Jericho didn’t even get a word out before Dianite was standing, smoothing his hair down, a few rogue strands still curling around the base of his horns.

“Let’s go.”

—

Jericho had to teleport behind the door and open it from the inside, the rising sun painting the building with hues of orange, yellow, and red. Soon enough, they were in, the library strange and dark without the people inside. Dianite straightened up, fixing his shirt and putting on an expression that said “I belong here, what are you going to do about it?” While he did that, Jericho adjusted his hat.

They climbed the stairs in silence, all the way up to the top floor. It was only when Jericho started banging on the door to Gijsbert's study that Dianite said anything.

“So what should I expect? Another Waglington? I can hardly handle the one.”

Tucker stopped his knocking.

“No, he’s… well, he’s a wizard.”

Dianite hummed, and Tucker slammed his fist against the door.

“He’s probably not up.”

Jericho stopped again. Now that he thought of it, there had never been a day where Gijsbert was up before noon. Really, he was more of a night owl.

“…that’s a good point. He’ll probably wake up to this, though.”

He pounded his fist against the door in a rapid burst, brows furrowed and fists curled tight. Come on, please be up-

His arm tensed, then his whole body, muscles tight and stiff as a rock. Almost mechanically, his knees bent and his legs moved him two small steps backwards. Quietly, the door slipped open, revealing the man of the hour. Jericho smiled he was made to bend over slightly, eye to eye with Gijsbert. He wasn’t wearing his normal robes, instead a loose, white shirt that came down to his knees, the colorful tattoos on his neck and parts of his arms fully exposed. Jericho swallowed, Gijsbert’s grey eyes boring into him with a tired intensity.

“Jericho? You’re here early,” Gijsbert said, voice heavy and thick with sleep, “I’m still in my pajamas. I’ve not even… who’s your… friend?”

Jericho tried to give Dianite a look, but his eyes wouldn’t move, locked on Gijsbert's. Not a bad view, he must admit. Dianite coughed.

“Oh, me? I’m, uh,” he coughed again, “Screziato. Um. Steve Screziato.”

Gijsbert smiled, lopsided but sincere. “Well it is very good to meet you, ‘Screziato Um Steve Screziato’.”

“It’s just Steve, please-“

“I know, I’m just teasing,” Gijsbert yawned. “But, um, what brings you here so early? Goodness, Jericho, your hair’s a mess-“

Jericho sighed as Gijsbert ran his fingers through his hair, brushing it out of his face, tucking a few stray strands behind his ears. It was only then Jericho realized he wasn’t thralled anymore, but he didn’t move.

Dianite adjusted the sleeves of his shirt. “I’d like to say this was a friendly, casual meeting, but Jericho here said you were going to tell us what you know about the Shadows.”

Gijsbert’s hands froze in his hair. He lowered them, Jericho standing up and fixing his hair just a little more. Gijsbert started to fidget his fingers.

“…let me get dressed. And, um, ready.“ He turned to leave, but then stopped.

“Jericho?”

“Yes?”

“The next time there’s something you need me to tell you and I say “wait until tomorrow”, I mean “tomorrow, after noon.” When I’m actually awake, dear. Especially if you’re bringing a…. friend! Also, have you gotten anywhere with your teleportation? You said you would practice.”

“Yeah,” Dianite drawled, “He practiced by breaking into my house. Into here as well.”

Gijsbert laughed, covering his mouth with his hand (that had a little tattoo of a beetle on it).

“Gods know what else he’s broken into, what he’s stolen…”

Gijsbert teasingly smacked Jericho on the arm, Jericho biting his tongue to not say anything.

“All he’s stolen is a look at me straight out of the bath. Well, that and a cup of coffee.”

Gijsbert smiled, bright and just a little wild, and Jericho watched as it slowly, slowly fell off his face. He gave a close lipped smile, then nodded, muttered something, and slipped inside his study.

Dianite looked at Jericho, “That went well.”

“He’s scared of the Shadows,” Jericho explained, “I don’t think he’ll say anything about them after this. This could be our only chance to get information-“

“He’s rather short, don’t you think? Even shorter than Sparkley-loins. Where is that bedazzled boy, anyways? He’s been gone all week-“

“That’s besides the point,” Jericho snapped, “Please. Don’t get distracted.”

“You worry too much. God, you’re just like Jeriah. Worried himself to his own destruction. Worry and… a few other things.”

Jericho huffed, the door opening again. Gijsbert was now in his usual robes, dark and flowing. His eyes seemed a little darker somehow, and Tucker’s first thought was magic?- before he realized it was simply eyeliner. Jericho stepped in, Dianite right behind him, Gijsbert looking around uneasily.

“There aren’t many books on the Shadows. None here, that is. Most of them are in Cypra, and that’s… far away. But I know about them.”

The study was its usual mess, books covering the desks, the floorboards scuffed, and the drawing of the target still on the floor. He hadn’t cleaned that up yet?

Gijsbert sat at his desk, hands fidgeting with a feather quill, running over the little feather over and back, over and back.

“How much do you know?”

Gijsbert stalled. “A good deal. They’re… odd beings. The Shadows themselves dwell in the void, the space between universes. They’re what you fell through, Jericho, when you went from your first world to the next to this one. They’re the blank spots between the stars. They’re what keeps this world balanced, the vacuum that spites the existence of everything. Agents of the Shadows, however, were malicious. Murderous.”

Jericho pondered over the words.

“Were?”

Gijsbert’s hands stopped.

“There are no more.”

“How?”

Gijsbert shakily sighed. Dianite pulled up a chair, straddling it, leaning down so he was eye to eye with Gijsbert. Tucker did the same, but sat like a normal person, legs bumping the desk.

“I’m… not trying to push,” Tucker admitted, voice low, “You don’t have to say anything.”

He inhaled, shuddering.

“Tell your friend to go,” Gijsbert said, surprisingly stubborn. Jericho blinked, then jerked his head towards the door. Dianite stood, giving one last pitying look to Gijsbert before slipping out of the room.

Gijsbert practically jumped out of his seat, the quill floating by his side, feather rippling rapidly, like it was being run through some wind.

“Can’t tell this sitting down. Sorry. I… have a picture. Let me get it.”

With a twirl, two pieces of paper slipped down from a high shelf. Gijsbert passed them to Jericho, then resumed his frantic pacing. One picture- a photograph- was of a proud city made of stone, bustling with people and industry. When he squinted and brought the photo close to his face, a factory billowing smoke out into the air became visible. The other one was a drawing, shakily done in charcoal, of a pile of rubble. Yet there on the horizon was that factory.

“What is this?”

“That, that is Cypra. The last spotting of an Agent of the Shadows. Cypra was prospering, bustling, the most beautiful city I’ve ever seen. The buildings were tall and glass and stone- that photograph does no justice to what it was really like. It was all destroyed in one day. These… Agents of the Shadows… tore a hole in the universe. Let in the void. Destroyed buildings, killed relentlessly. They razed the town. I was there, Jericho. I was there. A man named Cyperian Halva closed the tear. He… he didn’t, um,” Gijsbert trailed off, the feather quill starting to smoke.

“He died?” Jericho asked, cringing at how insensitive he suddenly sounded. But Gijsbert nodded, murmuring something to himself.

“They named the city after him. And that was the last anyone heard of the shadows. The last Agent was hung only two weeks after the events at Cypra. I was there, I watched it.”

“Oh.”

A heavy silence settled between the two of them, even as the feather floating next to Gijsbert combusted into flames, the ash and the metal tip of the pen still suspended in the air. Gijsbert's eyes were red and dark from eyeliner and lack of sleep. Jericho looked down at the floor.

“I’m… sorry. I’m really sorry. But I needed to know.”

Gijsbert sighed.

“There is nothing to worry about, dear. Nothing at all,” he said, so sure and steady even though he was close to tears, “The world’s not ending around you, it’s not out to get you… I don’t know what you’ve been through, but the world is kind, gentle. Everything works out. And if not, there’s a way out of everything, I think.”

_Like hurling yourself into a void and falling for four years?_ Jericho almost said.

Instead, he said: “Thank you, for telling me all this.”

Gijsbert waved his hand, face shifting back into its normal expression, tears and puffiness of eyes gone.

“It’s… personal. Yes, but you needed to know, else you’d be banging on my door at all hours to know more and more and more- not just about the Shadows, but everything. Speaking of learning and knowing and your insatiable appetite for knowledge, do you want to learn some magic you can use in self defense? Since I think that would help your anxieties.”

Jericho bristled.

“I’m not anxious- but yes, that sounds nice.”

Gijsbert’s face lit up, doing a little dance, books swirling off the shelves and into a shield around his body, all open and shuffled around, leafing through the pages without his touch as he moved, wrists and hands circling, twisting, delicate and graceful.

“Tomorrow, then,” Gijsbert announced. “I’ll do some reading, find things you may like, and I’ll catch up on sleep after you so rudely woke me. I’m kidding. Don’t worry. Get something to eat, take a bath, and get a shirt that isn’t mine or Ladia's- don’t give me that look! You’re stinky, and even though you look absolutely darling in Ladia’s shirt, it’s too big to be flattering. But…” he paused, the books lowering themselves down a little. “Don’t worry about the Shadows, or the people who fight for them. They’re not a threat, not anything you should be worried about. Not the Shadows, not their Agents not…. not me. I’ll be fine, everything will.”

Jericho smiled, but how could he believe that? That the Shadows, World Historian, wasn’t breathing down their necks, searching for more power, more quintessence or whatever that was? It didn’t feel right. But he silently stood and waved goodbye before slipping out of the study, face to face with Dianite. Helplessly, he shrugged.

“He said not to worry,” he said, “But I still don’t think it makes sense.”

Dianite scoffed, “That’s just you being paranoid. The man knows more about them than you, right?

“…Right-"

“So you should take his word.”

_But what if he’s lying, and he’s going to betray me? What if this is like the Kikoku and the Ianitas and Mianite all over again?_

He wished Sonja was next to him, so he could turn to her and ask what she thought, so she could give her two cents and free them from this silence, heavy and crushing, breaking them slowly but certainly, pushing down on them without a way out. No way out.

Dianite’s hand settled on his shoulder, knocking him back into reality. He blinked.

“Everything’s going to be fine. Maybe this world isn’t as fucked up as ours were, and there can be a happy ending. Or at least something close to an ending.”

Jericho dumbly nodded.

“And Jericho? One last thing.”

“Yes?”

Dianite looked down on him, eyes sincere and face open, sympathetic, a small smile on his face. He squeezed Jericho’s shoulder again.

“Please,” he implored, “Take a bath. You fucking reek.”

Jericho smacked him on the arm. Dianite went to swing for him again, but Jericho quickly teleported away, leaving nothing but a flower petal in his place.


	40. Interlude 6- Big City Bullshit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sonja makes her way into the city to start searching for her friends.

Sonja stared at the city, the part nestled inside of the walls, anticipation bubbling in her chest. Lev was right- Vatredas could be best described as a as big fuck city. She told them that as they passed through the walls, Lev cackling so loud it made a winged guard look over at them and raise her spear, an open threat that shut them up immediately. As they entered, Lev grabbed Sonja’s shoulder in a vice grip.

“This is where we, we… break. Meet me here tomorrow evening, right after the sun set.”

Sonja nodded. At least she wouldn’t be alone without them. The inside of the city bustled with trade and people, the smell of something sweet filling the air. Suddenly, she felt under dressed, especially when compared to the people around her in fancy, expensive clothes. Blending in would be hell…

“Sounds good,” she said absently. A huge as fuck city, with so many people. How was she supposed to find anyone? She looked back at Lev, but they were gone already.

“Fuck,” she deadpanned.

Time was of the essence if she wanted to find them before Tom’s dumb bitch syndrome kicked in. Best to find him before the whole city was razed.

She sighed, and started to push against the crowd, into the heart of the city.


	41. Mock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wag dreams of dying and wakes to darkness.

_There was nothing but darkness around him, the scratch of the blindfold on his face constant and near painful. Every inch of skin felt rubbed raw. Footsteps echoed off the walls. Someone shoved him, and he stumbled forward. The echoing fell away- now only the cries of people could be heard, they were calling, chanting in words he couldn’t understand._

_If he could move, he’d drop a star on them._

_But the chains around his wrists, binding his arms to his side, binding his ankles, making it hard to walk, and impossible to run. The air around him was hot and dry, the smell of sulfur making him cringe. He was shoved again, onto a wooden platform that wobbled under his feet. Something was slipped around his neck. The crowd silenced. Under him, the platform fell away. A moment of weightlessness. Then nothing. Not even the feeling of choking, even as the rope dug into his neck._

_Nothing but darkness. Silence._

—

Wag woke with a start, gasping in lungfuls of air. His hands shook as he raised them. The room felt too dark, even with the sun streaming cheerily through the window. A candle sat on a table a few feet away. He snapped his fingers, willing it to light. The magic rushed through him and fluttered to the candle in a dark sparkle.

It touched the wick, igniting it, and Wag let out a sigh of relief.

Then the magic bubbled again, the flame burning black. The wax boiled, but didn’t move, still frozen in the silhouette of a candle, but steaming and rolling.

“The fuck-“

It shattered like glass, wax shrapnel exploding out into the room around him with a disgusting squelching noise. Wag pulled the blanket up to cover him. When he looked up, however, there was no trace of wax on any of the walls. Not even a scorch mark on the table.

There was, however, Martha standing in the doorway.

“Did you see that?”

Martha nodded.

“I was… just about to ask,” she said, dazedly.

“I didn’t mean to do that,” Wag whispered. He looked down at his own hands. Martha stepped into the room, letting the door close behind her.

“You were screaming in your sleep-“

“I had another dream,” Wag said. He cringed. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to cut you off.”

“You’re fine, love.” Martha sighed, and sat on the bed. She took his hands in her own, placed a kiss on the back of each one. “There’s not much to say, besides you were screaming. Not even words. Just… screams. I thought you were being killed.”

She laughed, dryly. Wag couldn’t take his eyes off his hands.

“I think I was… in my dream, at least. I was hanged. But I didn’t die, I don’t think. All I did was wake up, and the candle…”

They both looked to where the candle once had been. Wag wanted nothing more than to lay back down, maybe with Martha this time. But Martha was standing, gently pulling him up with her.

“It’s morning, dear. Time to get out of bed, you’ve been sleeping for too long.”

“Because I always feel tired,” he joked. She didn’t laugh. Wag looked into her eyes, purple and worried, strong as ever. She pulled his hand again. The floor felt unsteady under him. He scratched his neck.

She pulled again. He stumbled forward, wrapped her in his arms, as tightly as he could.

It didn’t feel right, hands abuzz with magic or something else, but she hugged him right back anyways.

Outside the sun was painfully bright, but he couldn’t bring himself to shut his eyes.

Better light than darkness, right?


	42. Maybe a Mobster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom finally gets the action he was craving.

He’d grown too fond of wandering the streets in the week he was there.

Every nook and cranny of the town was his, every alley between buildings, every single inch of the city. He’d adventured through it all, seen every bit, but even then he couldn’t get enough. Four years of nothing then being hit with all of this? It was beautiful, overwhelming. Tom was insatiable, to say the very least.

He wandered the marketplace, taking in the array of smells that wafted through the air, sweat, spice, the exotic flowers sold at one of the booths with a sickly sweet overtone. Mot, Dianite, and him had all argued over what the marketplace smelled the most like. Mot said it was the spices. Tom insisted it was those flowers, pungent and beautiful. Dianite, however, claimed the most outstanding stench was of the cold pretentiousness every single merchant carried like a mantle upon their shoulders (every single merchant besides himself, of course).

Whatever smell hit the hardest didn’t matter. Tom itched, craved something. A fight, maybe. A good ol’ brawl like he used to have, a little taste of anarchy, without having to worry about trials or laws or anything like that. He missed it, some days. Then he remembered Dianite was dead there, and beat the nostalgia out of him with an emotional baseball bat. Did they play baseball here? Or know what it was? His hands curled into fists. Champion to Dianite, an absolute fuckin mad-lad-

“Pardon-“

He swung without thinking, fist cracking hard against someone’s face. Nobody even noticed, too wrapped up in their own business. Tom looked at his fist, panting, then lowered his hand, rushing over to the person he had just punched. They were clutching their face, the hood that covered their head hiding most of the damage.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, you scared the piss outta me!”

The person lowered their hands, and Tom caught a glimpse of bandages before the hood obscured everything. Wow, isn’t that just fuel to the guilt fire!

“Is fine, is fine,” they said, voice carrying a thick accent, “I would’ve done the same if it were you. You behind me. Would’ve broken your jaw, though. Eh? Not first time I’ve been socked in face. Uh. I’m looking for someone.”

“Oh? Buddy, I can’t help you with that, I’ve only been here for like, a week or so.”

“No no no,” the person insisted, “I want to see if you can. You punched me, least you can do is, er, help me.”

Tom paused, but then nodded. That made sense.

“So,” Tom asked, leaning into the persons space, “Who’re you looking for?”

The person looked around, then leaned in close.

“A man my father sent me to find. Said he had a peculiar mark- a lotus flower, pierced with a knife. Now I don’t know what the fuck a lotus flower is-“

“I know just the place to start!” Tom exclaimed, “There’s a booth that sells flowers. I’ll show you where it is.”

Tom took the man by the wrist and pulled him to the crowd, following his nose to the odor of many, many flowers. Some had vases, others were suspended in a globe of water to keep from dehydrating. A woman in a lovely red dress looked the both of them up and down.

“Hi, I need to see a lotus flower? Got one of those you can show me?”

“You planning to buy?” She snipped.

Yikes.

Tom patted his pockets, finding them empty. Well, empty besides that rock he found at Ladia's, but the little pebble wouldn’t do anything to help them. He grabbed the person by their wrist and pulled them through the crowd.

“Where are we go?”

“A friend's house, so we can get the flower.”

The person sighed in relief, letting Tom lead them along.

—

Mot answered the door on the second knock. What a sight he and this stranger must’ve been, standing there.

“Tom? What’s-“

“I need a loan. Just like. 5.”

“5?”

“I don’t know how currency works here!!”

Mot looked the stranger over, face unreadable.

“And what’s this for..?”

“A flower,” they said in unison.

Mot sighed, but reached inside of his pocket and pulled out a few shiny coins. Tom snatched them out of his hands, thanking him profusely. Without another word, Tom nodded and started running to the marketplace, the stranger close behind. He could ask for their name later.

Soon enough, they were in front of the stand with the flowers, panting and sweaty. The lady stared at them strangely, but automatically brightened up the second the coin touched the table. With a flick of the wrist, a little bubble of water floated over to her. She gestured very broadly, the water opening around the lotus like a flower blooming another flower, and Tom held out his hands. The flower dropped in his hands. It looked sorta familiar, somehow.

“Huh,” The stranger said.

“Didn’t you say there was a knife?” Tom asked. They nodded. Tom pondered where they could get a knife before he realized, uh, duh, he had one strapped to his belt. He pulled it out, curved blade shining in the sun, and stabbed it through the flower. The woman behind the stand looked like she was about to have a stroke. It looked even more familiar, but he couldn’t place his finger on it.

“So, like, this?”

The stranger nodded, and Tom pulled the knife from the flower. So familiar…

The knife heated up in his hand.

Oh!

“Wait!” He cried. The stranger stopped in their tracks, which wasn’t very meaningful since they were only like. Two feet away.

“What?”

Tom pulled up his shirt, showing the sigil- a lotus flower pierced with a knife.

“I’m the dude you’re looking for!”

The stranger rushed to him, shushing him frantically, but regardless, their fingers slipped under his shirt, feeling the lines of the sigil.

“Oh,” they breathed, “It’s good to meet you, er. Name?”

“Tom. And you?”

They leaned in.

“Lev Deorum. Praise be to Dianite.”

“Hell yeah-"

“We can’t talk here,” Lev said, “Too many, um, hearing. Follow me.”

Tom’s heart was in his throat, anticipation making his fingertips buzz like a live wire. Now this was what he missed! Mischief and secrets and dicking around in the name of Dianite, going against all the rules.

He smiled to himself, following Lev with a pep in his step.

Maybe this was this universe's equivalent of being a mobster…

…well, only time would tell.


	43. Flutter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jordan, wings fresh, and sore, and new, wants nothing more to fly. To escape the free fall that is his life.

Every single muscle in his body ached. They burned, his legs from a night filled with running, his back and wings from the pathetic attempts to fly.

Panting, he put his hands on his knees and ducked his head, giving some time to collect himself.

_Come on_, Sparklez thought,_ you can do this._

He backed up a little, spreading his wings. They shook uncontrollably, muscles straining and burning, painfully sore. Gritting his teeth, he beat them against the ground. Nothing. He growled. Tried again. Forcing himself to try to flap them. Take off.

His lungs ached with the effort. All he was doing was stirring the grass and the leaves. Exhaustion overtaking him, he flopped onto the ground, limp as a doll. His wings were spread out. And he could feel every single feather soak in the sun, feel the muscle twitch and throb.

“My Lady,” he cried at the sky, “can you hear me? Please, please tell me.”

A little bird chirped. The sky shifted, puffy blue clouds dancing their way through the sky. The dewy grass had probably soaked him by now.

Back in Ruxomar, Ianite’s presence was a constant. Whether it was in person, or just when he saw Andor, those proud, purple wings…

_I invite you_

That’s what he had ended with. Both times. On the docks, and in the bar. Rha had shown him the jail in Vatredas- an unsuspecting building with so many underground cells, some filled, some not. Cold and damp- hardly any blankets to be seen. Yet every cell had a book of prayers to Ianite. Rha walked straight back, and talked in a way Sparklez hadn’t heard before, words slightly running together and voice loud, dancing.

He wished he hadn’t run. But where would that have left him? Embracing Andor and stabbing Ianite in the back? But Andor was on Ianite’s side- just not this Ianite. He covered his face with his hands. No. They were the same, they had to be. There couldn’t be that big of a difference.

“Ianite,” he called, “my Lady, please.”

Constant birdsong.

He pulled his hands way. Raised his arms up and mimed holding a bow, pulling the arrow back…

In his head, every single bird was pinned to their trees with a purplish arrow, the arrows that had killed Shadows and heroes and friends. And he was holding a bow, a sure, certain sign that Ianite was still with him, watching, waiting.

The birds chattered to one another, mocking him.


	44. What comes next?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andor and Anya plot the next stages of the revolution. There must be sparks before a fire can truly blaze.

Now that it was morning, the jitters had slightly faded, but still made him buzz like a live wire. Andor tapped his foot endlessly, playing with the hem of his cloak, occasionally stopping only to drum his fingers on the table. That old restlessness was setting in- not because he was trapped, but because he wanted to do more and more and more.

Anya, however.

“We need to take things slowly,” she advised, her feet kicked up on the table, a worn, heavy book in her hands, “We need to get more people to support us. What you did last night was amazing- I’m still surprised- but this is all only the beginning. This is the prologue to the story, and god knows how long the story could take.”

“It feels wrong.” Andor looked to the door. Just hours ago Sparklez had been standing there, face pale, with wings… “To not do anything, I mean. What are we even- I don’t know a lot about what’s been happening here.”

“I know.” She smiled, warmly, chipped teeth not distracting from the beauty of her smile. Andor leaned forward, elbows on the table.

“Gimme a crash course on the shit that’s been going on.”

Anya set the book on the table.

“Alright. Gods know how many years ago, that wall was built to keep something out. People argue what that something was- some say it was an illness, others an army, some say it was a band of prostitutes that had each born a child of the king and wanted to claim the throne.”

“Really!”

“Oh, there’s all sorts of stories about it. My favorite was that it grew out of the ground. Or that it was built to keep away wild hog-men.”

“Like pigmen?”

Anya looked at him funny. It suddenly occurred to Andor how different their worlds were. She had probably never been to the nether- was there even a nether here? Biting his tongue, he nodded.

“Anyways,” she continued, “It wasn’t always divided as it is now. Then farmland started to move outside of the walls to make more room for business, magic, study, trade. The farmers were pushed out of the city and into the outside- the wealthy spared no expense on magic and crops, treating the land… we prospered, for a bit. Then the merchants taxed goods more and more, payed less and less- first to pay off debt, for the lands and the crops, then out of nothing but greed. Glutting themselves on the fruits of our labor.

That was before Rha came here. Became the priest, built the temple of Ianite, and the executioners replaced the regular guards. There’s a counsel, a group of leaders, yes, but they all defer to Rha- his word goes, because he speaks for Ianite. And the executioners act her will. Nothing has changed for the better, but Ianite’s closeness to this whole situation… complicated things, to say the least. Our biggest problem will be convincing people that fighting against this system isn’t fighting against their goddess.”

Andor nodded. That was what happened in Ruxomar- everyone too scared to go against their king and their god. Where did that leave them? Sure, his imprisonment had inspired the heroes to destroy the city, but no change was ever made. There was never a democracy, as he so wished.

“What do we do?” He asked, gesturing broadly, “Nobody would ever believe us. We have nobody on our sides.”

Anya sighed.

“I don’t know, but you shouldn’t be so doubtful. While the executioners act out Ianite’s will, that doesn’t mean they don’t menace the people. In Blessed Cypra, the guards take an oath to both their god and the people- here, they just swear to uphold Ianite’s will.”

Andor leaned back. He’d never thought of it that way. “Really? Where’d you learn that from?”

Anya looked away.

“Books from the library inside the walls, rumors, sermons at the temple… all of that. I’m sure, though, that what you did yesterday with the wind and telling off that executioner- yes, yes that will be the spark to turn this all into a fire, a fire we’ll fan into a blaze!”

He found himself smiling, wings fluttering under his cloak. Distantly, he wondered if Sparklez was okay, or if he had told all to the priest-

No. He wouldn’t, because even if they were on separate sides, they would still be friends. Or so he hoped.

He drummed his fingers upon the table and sighed, Anya’s words coasting over him like a breeze.


	45. Breakfast Frustrations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ladia receives word that the person they should be looking out for has arrived in town.

It gave her peace of mind that nobody wanted a drink this early. That gave her ample room to spread out, feet kicked up on the table, sat in a chair, a book in hand. She’d read it many, many times, but no matter what it always brought a smile to her face.

Speaking of smiles, the pale haired woman- Mara? No, Michele..? Martha! Martha and Wag came down the stairs. Martha smiling brightly, Wag sleepy eyed and following her down the stairs. She set down her book.

“Breakfast?” Ladia called, “There’s lots of leftovers. Speaking of. Next time you see, er, Jamieson?”

“Jericho?” Wag offered. Ladia snapped her fingers.

“Yes. Him. Next time you see him, tell him to eat. He looks like he needs it- the boy's two missed meals away from cadaverous.”

Martha blinked, smile somehow growing.

“Cadaverous! Isn’t that a five dollar word! And you used it properly.”

Ladia laughed, then stood and walked behind the bar, opening the door to the kitchen. There had been a lot of people at breakfast- a surprising amount, really, even for harvest time. In the kitchen, there was hardly any food left, save a pot of oatmeal still on the stove. That would be enough for the two of them, hopefully. She opened the cupboard for a bowl, and froze.

There, on the shelf, perched on a bowl, was a spider. A little white spider. With a low whistle, she extended her hand. It scampered onto her hand, paused for a second, and bit down.

A rush of cold came over her, and she grit her teeth-

** _ Arrived. Wandering. _ **

“How will I find it? Or them?” She hissed through her teeth.

Nothing. The cold started to fade away. She watched, hopeless, as the spider crawled off her hand. It crawled back into the cupboard. Then, it laid down, and died. Emptily, she stared at it. What the hell was she supposed to do?

For now, it was simple. She took the bowls from the cupboard, filled them with oatmeal, grabbed two spoons, and left the kitchen, smiling.

But this thing, this person, had arrived. And was wandering. _Wandering._ And that’s all she had to go off of.

Mianite, great in mercy, great in vagueness.

“Why don’t you stay and eat with us?” Martha asked.

“Oh, well,” the last thing she wanted was a conversation, “I have to go clean the rooms upstairs before the merchants get back. Maybe later?”

“That’s fine.” Martha smiles at her, then turned to Wag, who looked half asleep in his oatmeal.

Ladia shook her head, and went upstairs, troubled but determined to act out Mianite’s will.

Whatever that will may be.


	46. Reminiscing of Home and Other Loved Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gijsbert tries to get Tucker to talk about him home. Tucker isn't sure how to.

It was around 9 am when Gijsbert opened the door again, let him come in for real. The whole time he was sat in front of the door, trying to do something with his magic. He could feel wisps of it, craving to do something, but it wouldn’t take a shape.

Dianite left mere minutes after Gijsbert shut the door, but he stayed. Maybe today they’d work on more complicated spells, start to touch on teleportation in between worlds. Every bit of him wanted nothing more than to go back home, to the savanna, his house overlooking the world. Back to his Mianite— the one that cared, protected him, even.

But none of that- no teleportation spells. Now he was moving his hands around in stupid little circles, trying to will a fire to start in his hands. At least with blood magic he had a medium to work with, something to focus on besides the vague idea of a fire springing to life in his hands. Stupid fucking flames, blue, orange, whatever. All he could imagine was the heat and the painful burn of flesh. And the scent— oh, the scent was poignant, boiling flesh, scorching flesh, burning things—

“Stop. Your hands are starting to smolder,” Gijsbert said. Tucker looked down at his hands, and yep, they were smoking, blisters already risen on the palms. So the pain and the heat wasn’t imaginary, at least. That was a step one. He groaned in frustration, far past the point of pain, lowering his hands to his sides. Gijsbert shook his head and, with a wave of the arms, summoned a rod of ice, about a foot long. He snatched it out of his hands, sighing as the blistering heat began to fade. Sure, it was almost painfully cold in his hands, but comforting nonetheless.

“So while we’re taking this little break,” Gijsbert said conversationally, “Tell me about the other world.”

Tucker crouched, then sat himself down on the floor. “Uh- Ruxomar?”

“No, the one before that. The one you so desperately want to go home to. You don’t talk about it much, now that I think about it, it’s always about Ruxomar and all the things that went wrong there. You are quite the salty little pessimist, aren’t you?”

Tucker shrugged, unsure if that was true or not. Regardless, the thought of saying it aloud… how was he supposed to start? With washing up on the island with Tom, uttering the names of the gods for the first time? Sonja and Jordan arriving too, along with Ianite? Their houses, or the war? Furia? The brief rise of the Shadows?

None of those places felt like a beginning. Well, except…

“In the first world, Mianite was the God of Order,” he said in one breath. Gijsbert nodded.

“Same here,” Gijsbert reasoned, “But here he’s also the God of Music, Winter, God of Many-Eyed things… the list goes on. Speaking of going on—er, go on?”

“Right.”

Tucker paused. Where did he go from here? The temple, with its huge, vaulted ceilings? The endless wars he fought for Mianite, battling against friends, creatures— no. All he could think of was Mianite himself. Tan skin contrasting against the white of his robe and his eyes, which were the color of a perfectly polished pearl. The deep voice that made his whole body feel like it was buzzing, how he was always so….

He swallowed, realizing he had said all of that aloud. Gijsbert stared at him, a little stunned. Tucker’s face felt hot, and he looked away.

“Uh,” Tucker said, “I knew him well. You can see why I want to go back, huh. We were… close.”

Gijsbert nodded, “It sounds like you really loved him.”

_Maybe in the way a champion loves his God_, he almost said, but his throat felt thick and raw, as if anything he said would make a dam break. And the last thing he needed was to break.

“Yeah,” he whispered, that raw feeling making his eyes water, “Yeah. I think I really did.”

The silence could’ve been cut with a knife. He wished he had one, so he could cut the heaviness off of his shoulders, carve it out of his throat. But his mind screamed at him nonetheless- _my Mianite wouldn’t’ve betrayed me. My Mianite would’ve been there. My Mianite, my Mianite._

In his hands, the ice was all but melted. The skin still hurt. It hurt under his skin as well, his own fire having burnt into him.

Nevertheless he stood, shaking his hands free of water, and holding them out, palms up.

One day, he’d find his way home.


	47. Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martha wants to make sure Wag is okay. Or, at least, to let him know that he has her the whole way through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some sweet Martha/Wag fluff for @binnii on tumblr, who (also) won the 30 follower raffle!!!!

Ladia went up the stairs, her footsteps surprisingly quiet for a woman of her stature. Martha turned to Wag to ask him when he thought she’d be back down, but he was literally face down in the bowl of oatmeal— wait, no, he was taking a nap on the table next to him. Oh, poor thing— thankfully, his hood hadn’t been taken down with him, down and bunched at the nape of his neck. He looked so peaceful while he slept. She almost didn’t want to wake him. But he had been sleeping far too much, really, he had been. Without another thought, she shook him awake.

He jolted, letting out a garbled cry and almost toppling out of his seat. Martha grabbed him, and he steadied, shaking like a leaf.

“Darling, is everything alright?” She asked.

He shook his head.

“Another dream?”

“Yeah,” he hoarsely whispered, “Yes, another dream. There was, uh. I don’t know. I was on the ground, being beaten… I always die in my dreams.”

Martha looked into his eyes. Dark circles under his eyes were bisected by the red streaks down his face. His hair was a mess, greasy and wet with sweat, but she ran her hand through it anyways. Hadn’t he bathed?

“You need to eat, dearest,” she begged. He looked at the bowl, untouched and still steaming, and looked like he was about to throw up. When he finally faced her, his eyes shone with unshed tears. It was silent, she couldn’t even hear him breathe.

“I’m so tired, Martha.”

Martha moved her chair closer, wrapping her arms around him. Every inch of him felt far too hot. He tensed, hands flying up, as if he was scared to touch her.

“I don’t see why,” she whispered, running steady hands through his hair, “You’ve done nothing but, uh, sleep. Waggles, do you think this has something to do with your magic? Like the candle, this morning. And you were the only one of us who really kept their magic.”

“Maybe,” he yawned into her shoulder, “But you still have yours. You told me about that cloak you made for Andor, that it was hard, but there.”

She pulled back from the hug, and cupped his face in her hands. His cheeks were far too hot, feverish, almost, even though the color was disturbingly pale. He sighed, leaning into the touch, thankfully keeping his eyes open.

“We need to figure out what’s causing this,” she said, “I need to know, I need to know that you’re going to be okay.”

Raising a shaky hand and, after a moment of hesitation, he covered hers with it. It felt too hot, even hotter than his face. And he wasn’t even sweating. All she wanted was to make this better, make all the pain go away, but there was only so much she could do. A tear slipped down his cheek, and her heart broke for her Wag. She let her eyes slip shut, searching for that flicker of magic she had. A light against the dark for him. An anchor, when she wasn’t there for him to hold.

A whisper of something purple crossed her mind, she reached for it, clutched it in her hands, and let it flow through her, into him. Wag gasped, and she could feel the magic be stopped by something, like a wall.

She furrowed her brows.

Even the strongest of walls had cracks.

She forced it through, like a plant growing through a concrete floor. It carved through, rooting through the wall, and she felt Wag start to slump against her. His hands rested on her sides. They felt warm. Not hot, just warm.

With a shaking sigh, she opened her eyes. She felt something trickle from her nose, and licked her lips, tasting blood. But her hands stayed on his face, thumb tracing over his cheekbone.

“Do you think that will do anything?”

Wag hummed, eyes still shut, “I don’t even know what you did.”

Martha laughed, “A small spell, for good dreams. Steve used to have nightmares a lot.”

Wag took her hand, and planted a kiss to her palm. They ignored the silence, which blossomed like a flower between them. She wished she could kiss him, but her nose was still bleeding.

“You don’t have to eat, love,” she whispered, “Just stay up. We’ll go to Ianite’s temple, or that library Tucker mentioned, and we’ll figure all this out. I promise.”

Wag opened his eyes.

“You’re bleeding,” he said, moving to wipe it from her face. She caught his hand.

“I’ll be fine, I can wipe it off in a second. It’s you I’m worried about.”

Wag laughed, leaned in, and kissed her on the forehead.

“Then you have a lifetime of worry ahead of you,” Wag joked.

“As long as it’s a lifetime with you, I’ll be more than happy.”

They looked at one another.

Suddenly, they burst into hysterical laughter, cackling at the situation they were in, at how cheesy what she said was, at the whole wide world and everything except for them, more blood dribbling onto her mouth.

It filled the silence, at least a little.


	48. The Advocate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celia arrives in Vatredas and she has a hit list.

Rha watched the teapot steadily steam. In his hands was a book from the library. He’d never read it before, but it was an old, carefully cared for book about runes. It had taken him an hour to find the librarian, and a few more hours to get out of the conversation and insist that he only wanted the one book, not the seven the librarian said he should also read, and yes, he would take good care of it. It was fun, though. The blatant disrespect that came with the short man’s doubtful eyes was rare now that he was priest.

Overall, though, it was a peaceful evening, the air rich with the smells of coming fall, yet the air was still hot.

Suddenly, the door slammed open.

There stood Celia. Her armor was shifting around her body, as if it couldn’t decide where to stay, except for her helmet, which was stagnant in her hand. Her wings were out and ruffled, probably from the long flight between wherever she was and here. All three of her eyes were filled with an unending, boiling rage, lip twitching.

Rha blinked.

“You cut your hair?”

Celia scowled. Well, she had cut her hair. All of it was gone besides the purple, leaving it short and choppy.

“That’s not what I’m here to discuss.”

She stepped into the room and slammed the door shut behind her.

“What has happened?” He asked, a little scared. He stood, even though it sent shocks of pain through his knee.

“I feel Dianite stirring. And I feel them. I wanted to tell you I’m here— and that I’m going to hunt them down like the dog they are.”

“I don’t run the city.”

Celia scoffed.

“You basically do. Those idiots all listen to you. They’re too scared to do anything else.”

“They may, but— that doesn’t change anything. This is ridiculous, Celia, they’re dead. Our sibling, I mean.”

“You can’t change my mind,” Celia snapped, slipping her helmet on her head. “I didn’t come here to ask you for permission, just to tell you that this is…”

“An extrajudicial execution?”

“It’s law here that heretics are to be hung by the throat, is it not?”

“Yes, after a trial.”

Celia clenched her jaw, the teapot screaming out steam.

“Our Lady is the judge. I am the jury, the executioner. And there is not an inch of their skin that does not reek of guilt.”

Her tone left no room for argument. Rha nodded.

“Now then,” Celia continued, “who was that other man, the one who you said was healed with red sparks?”

Rha paused. Yes; that man. Green skin, tattered clothes… Andor’s friend. He’d not seen Andor in a while. What an insightful man. Too smart for anyone’s good. Tom was Andor’s friend, wasn’t he?

He looked down. Andor wouldn’t ever find out. Besides, the so called champion of Dianite… he had it a long time coming.

“Tom. Tom’s his name. Staying at the Cinnamon Grove Inn, but I’ve seen him wandering. A green skinned man with a grating accent. You won’t miss him.”

Celia nodded sharply. She looked younger, somehow, back before she was a champion. Just Celia, face obscured by a scarf to keep out sand or snow or the smell of smoke. Her face was covered, the shifting metal settling in a way to protect her chest and add extra metal onto her fists, meaning her punches could break through a wall without hurting her. Rha shuddered. He’d seen it, many times.

“Glory to Ianite.”

She threw the door open, and stumbled back. There, crouched right before the door, Jordan stared up at her with big, shocked eyes. His whole body was dirty, wings touching the ground. Celia looked at him. He saluted with a quivering hand.

Without another look, Celia stepped over him and stormed out the front door. Her wings thundered against the ground, and she was gone.

Jordan stared up at him. The teapot’s whistle was starting to give Rha a headache.

“What happened?” He asked. Jordan just stared, silent.

“She’s going to kill Tom?” Jordan said, voice small.

Rha extended a hand to Jordan, but he scuttled back on the floor.

“Have you slept at all, Jordan?” Rha wondered aloud, “eaten anything? And your wings— they’re in terrible condition—“

“Is she going to kill him or not?” Jordan cried.

Rha blanked. To tell the truth or lie, the lesser of two great evils.

“You should know, those who go against our Lady must be punished.”

“But there’s a trial involved!”

“Ianite is judge, and Celia is her jury—“

“And as an executioner, how can I see this as just!? Ianite is the goddess of justice- she carries the scales of balance! That was the first thing I ever built for her! A scale of balance, of justice!” Jordan stood, stumbling back, clearly unbalanced by his dirty wings. He slammed into the wall behind him, a cloud of dirt spilling from the feathers. Rha furrowed his brows.

“This has nothing to do with balance, does it? Nothing to do with that and everything to do with that man. Tom… you know him, don’t you? Andor as well? So you found me through him.”

He stared at him, eyes wide.

“I have to go- I have to go find him.”

“You can’t go against Celia. She’ll know if you do. She’ll hunt you down and eat your heart in the marketplace, and nobody will stop her. She has Ianite’s support— you would be going against Ianite, against all of us,” Rha said, trying to reason with the poor man.

Jordan put a hand over his heart. He looked so frail, even though he was muscular and proud, wings dirty and shaking, dragging on the ground. The teapot whistled, steady and shrill.

“I can’t let her hurt him.”

And he ran from his house, wings hanging heavily on his back.

Rha watched him go. When he went back into the kitchen, his tea had boiled over, frothy, sweet smelling liquid dripping off the stove. He picked up the pot and set it on the table, but didn’t pour himself a glass. He let it go cold.


	49. Serendipity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sonja runs into a wall. Then a friend.

Vatredas.

Yes, Lev has been right. It was a huge as fuck city. Sonja had been wandering most of the day, pushing through seemingly endless crowds of people. The city was gorgeous, spiraling and huge, full of people. Nothing like the void or the forest or the outskirts of Vatredas. Too lively to be the void, too many people to be the forest, too rich and clean to be the outskirts. Every person who passed her was well dressed, as if they all had somewhere important to be.

They all looked at her as she walked by, eyes drawn to her common clothes, or her hair, or her fox ears. Maybe all three. Goddammit— she wouldn’t find anyone at this rate! Or what if they weren’t even here? It would take a miracle to find them.

Wait.

Slowly, she clasped her hands together.

“Mianite,” she whispered, as quietly as she could. From the fact there was only a temple to Ianite, and the gods were trapped, it would probably be best to keep quiet.

“Motherfucker,” she continued, “Please. Help me find my friends. Tucker, Tom, Wag, Jordan… If you can freeze a river, you can damn well help me find them. Come on. You— your alternates have done nothing but let me down for the past god knows how many years. Show me them,” she whispered, letting her eyes slip shut, “Lead me to them—“

She slammed into a wall. A spike of pain throbbed through her head. She stumbled back, and into a slightly warmer wall.

“Hello?” A kind voice asked. Sonja opened her eyes, and turned around. Then she looked up, because she had to. A massive, grey haired woman was staring down at her. Sonja waved, casually trying to play off the fact she just slammed into the wall, then into her…

“Just trying to, uh, go inside—“

There was a sign hanging over the door. People walked around them, staring as they passed.

“For a drink?”

“No, uh,” she swallowed, really, really wishing she had a knife, her magic, something. “I’m looking for some friends of mine. They fell into the city a few days ago.”

“Fell into? That literal, or slang?”

“Literal, unfortunately.”

She imagined this huge woman grabbing her and hauling her off to jail because Tom fucked up and got them all arrested. She’d be with them at least.

“Well, I can’t help you.” The large woman deadpanned. The awkwardness was palpable, but she didn’t move. Nor did Sonja. This giant was probably the most stubborn woman on this side of the river— until Sonja arrived, at least. Or would that be Jordan?

Sonja cursed under her breath. The large woman stared down at her with a cold glare, jaw set. How muscular could one person be, Sonja wondered, trailing her eyes up and down her form. From her legs to her shoulders, which were broad and jealousy inducing. Strong, impressive muscle, hidden by a clean shirt, a little spider waving its front legs at her.

Sonja blinked. Oh.

“You didn’t have to make me slam into a wall,” she whispered to Mianite, wherever he was.

“What? Look, if you’re drunk, I can take you home, but—“

Sonja grabbed her arm, heart pounding in her chest because holy shit this woman could kill her without even thinking.

“There’s a spider on your shoulder.”

The woman’s jaw dropped. She looked at her shoulder, and there it was, a white spider. She leaned down a little,

“Your friends,” she whispered, “One’s at the temple of Ianite. Martha’s boy. Let’s not go there.”

“Waglington?”

“Yes. I don’t know where, er, Sunglasses went. Green is out right now.”

Sunglasses? “Jordan,” green? “And Tom?”

The woman nodded. Sonja bit her lip. She didn’t know where they were either? Had they run off together?

“And the reckless boy is at the library. I can take you to him.”

Reckless boy? Son of a bitch. What had Andor gotten himself into? No— Andor’s ‘thing’ was his wings. If she was talking about Andor, she would’ve mentioned wings. Or Mot’s speckled skin. Or Dianite’s… everything.

“You know? The, er, rope holder.”

Sonja’s heart dropped. She tried to hide her shock, looking away.

“Tucker? Reckless?” She deflected. Rope holder her ass. He let go of her.

“Yes. Very. My name is Ladia, by the way.”

She extended her hand. Sonja took it.

“Sonja— reckless?”

“Reckless. Mindless. Foolhardy, audacious, injudicious, temerarious—“

“I know what it means,” Sonja snapped, “It just doesn’t sound like him.”

Sonja decided that she could take Ladia in a fight. All she would have to do is pretend not to know a word, then slit her throat while she was speaking.

“You can follow me,” Ladia said. “I’ll show you where he is. And while we walk, I’ll tell you why I consider him reckless. Does that sound like a deal? I’m trying to be amenable.”

“It’s a deal, just, take me to Tucker. Please.”

Ladia smiled warmly, stepping out into the crowd. They parted around her like a roaring river around a stone. Sonja followed by her side, hope fluttering in her chest.

Please let them be safe, she silently prayed. Please.

Only time would tell.


	50. Sunset and Simulacrum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wag tries his best to stay awake. His dreams haunt him anyway.

The air was thick with incense, the sound of crinkling pages was silenced in the heavy tapestries that hung from the walls, swaying with the slight breeze that blew inside the temple. The sun set red in the distance, casting odd, warped shadows.

Wag couldn’t tear his eyes from the statue of Ianite. His head pounded and ached, his hands shook, and he had long given up on reading the heavy tome in his lap. The long, flowery descriptions of some far off city with two names. There were no answers hidden in the words, so he stared at the statue.

It glared down at him. He’d seen her face in one of his dreams— only for a second, then every single cell in his body boiled and burst, and the scene faded into yet another dream. Each one, ending in his death.

Martha, however, was lost in what she was reading, even taking notes on a separate sheet of paper. The woman who had shown them where these tomes were kept in the temple had long left— Wag was pretty sure they were the only two people left. A bit of Martha’s hair was in her face, and he gently pushed it out of her eyes.

“Find anything?”

Martha shook her head. She gently took Wag’s hand in her own, gently kissing his knuckles. He blushed, happy he was awake.

“It’s just… thinly veiled praise about Ianite. It’s so biased, I don’t know what details can be trusted and which ones can’t. History is written by the victors.”

“Jordan told me that, back in Dagrun,” Wag said. Martha looked up at the statue.

“I hope he’s okay. While you were asleep, he joined the executioners. They’re—“

“Ianite’s harpies,” Wag spat, blood boiling. “Winged rats. Calling them scum would be a compliment.”

Martha studied his features, and Wag slowly realized he didn’t know why he felt so angry towards them, the rage slowly slipping out of his system, leaving him thoroughly confused.

“I’m sorry.”

“Did you hear that in a dream?”

Wag shrugged. He felt drained, again, everything in the temple heavy.

“What did you read in your book?” Martha asked. His eyes almost slipped shut. She smacked him on the shoulder. He jolted.

“It was about a city,” he slurred, “It was called, uh, I can’t pronounce that name, and then, uh, Cypra. It was destroyed, and then I— er, I don’t know. Lots of people were hung. Someone died. I think. I’m… I’m going to head back. I’m tired.”

“What? Wag—“

He stood, the whole world spinning as he did so.

“I need, I’m so tired, Martha. You can stay, you can stay. Don’t worry.”

“This is ridiculous,” she snapped. “Something is seriously wrong, you have to take this seriously.”

“I’ll be fine. Just gotta check up on… we don’t have a son. See? I have to go back to sleep, I’m exhausted.”

Martha’s eyes were full of tears, but she didn’t move. Not an inch. Then, suddenly, she stood, reaching out to him with a face hard as marble, purple light flashing off of her skin, blinding. He staggered back. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her, the statue of Ianite…

“You look just like her,” he whispered. Like mother like daughter. Goddesses. Images of Goddesses.

Whose face had he seen in his dreams? Her's, Ianite’s, the face of some friend or lover that hadn’t seen him in a long, long time. The face of a dog, about to tear him into bloody chunks. The face he saw in the mirror, lip twitching and eyes bulging as he watched the life fade from his own eyes.

Martha froze. The purple light faded from around her.

“I am nothing like her,” she growled.

Wag looked down at his feet.

“I’m going back,” he whispered. “I’m going back to sleep.”

She made no move to stop him as he stumbled out of the temple, into the sunset that smelled like flowers and the wafting smell of marketplace spice and something else, something that he only could smell in his dreams. Hot desert sand. The wet ground of a marsh. The fog that rolled over a ten-mile wide graveyard. His darling, bleeding in so many ways.

He stumbled back to the Cinnamon Grove Inn, more tired than he’d ever felt before.


	51. Start of the Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andor thinks of the revolution. He thinks of his wings. He thinks of flying away. He thinks of telling Any about his wings. He doesn't get the chance to do either of these.

Andor was half asleep when she said it, watching her cat sleep on the pillow by his head.

“We could be executed for this.”

He sat up, looking at Anya. They’d been talking for hours and hours. So much so that his throat was sore and dry. He swallowed, letting her continue.

“We could be executed, or imprisoned. Yes, that’s what happened last time.”

Andor nodded, suddenly feeling cold. His wings pushed against the fabric of his cloak, but didn’t show on the fabric. He wrapped his wings around his body, his body, remembering when the feathers were purple.

“I know that all too well,” Andor mused, “I tried to… do something, and I was… my father… I was imprisoned for a long time. It wears on you. I still don’t feel like I did before. Then I was… imprisoned again, but this time I wasn’t alone. I had friends, family, and the knowledge that I failed.”

“Then use that knowledge,” Anya spoke, “It is as useful as any sword, any shield. This time is different, I can feel it. But we have to act.”

Andor sat up, a smile starting to grow on his face.

“You said there was a council, right? Who are they? If we strike now—“

“Are you implying we assassinate them?”

Andor paused. The way Anya said it, it sounded like a bad thing. But every single book Andor had read ended with the old leader dying. Assassinated, burned, hung… teleported to the top of the nether…

“What are we supposed to do?” Andor asked. They’d been pouring over papers and old logs, a hand drawn map of Vatredas sat on the table. The loft above Anya’s bar was surprisingly homey. By the windowsills flowers grew in old, dirty pots, the bed made. The cat— a huge tabby named Carnation— stirred, stretching out.

Anya opened her mouth, then closed it again. Then opened it— and closed it, with a click of teeth.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I honestly don’t. Outside of what I’ve seen and read, I have no clue what we’re supposed to do.”

“You probably know more than me,” Andor said. Anya shrugged.

“All I know is that this time will be different. This time, there are so many people that it won’t be stopped even if we are imprisoned, even if we’re killed. This fire cannot be tamed or put out, and if they want me to stand down they’ll have to behead me, and even then my words will live on. I would be content to live as nothing but a talking head, as long as my words are heard and heeded— balance must be done. Justice must be done.”

Silence hung in the air, the dull dusk sun bathing her in purple. Andor leaned back and gently pet Carnation, who started purring, deep and loud.

“Andor, promise me that you’ll finish this. I can’t let this die.” Anya whispered.

Andor’s hand froze in Carnation’s fur. He wouldn’t be able to. He’d freeze. He’d run. Or he’d grow restless and let it rot. Just like Dagrun. The truth died on his tongue.

“I will,” Andor promised, “Because I know you’d do the same.”

Anya smiled, tilting her head just a little. He wondered what would’ve happened if he hadn’t stopped Jordan. Simple, she would’ve offered him a drink, woven her words into a tapestry so beautiful he would ask her to cut his wings off. And she wouldn’t. She’d tell Jordan his wings were a part of him, and now a part of the revolution. She’d tell him he belonged, just as she did when Andor joined. Except, he still hadn’t told her about his wings, hadn’t told her so much…

Or, she’d treat Jordan like she would the men who fought, throw the door open as loud as a crack of thunder and howl at them to get out. Both, maybe. Shout his ass out the door and then scream until she was certain he listened, then explain her point with a boiling, rippling passion. He flexed his wings against the cloak, reaching for the hem. He could do this.

“Anya, I-“

Andor was cut off by the trapdoor leading up to her room flying open. A young looking girl with messy brown hair poked her head in, face flushed.

“Evelyn?” Anya asked. “What are—“

“Northern gate! Somethings happening!” Evelyn blurted, breaths coming in hurried wheezes. Andor stood, Anya kneeling by the trapdoor, looking down at Evelyn.

“What’s happening? Evelyn, sweetheart, slow down.”

“It’s— I… an executioner… an executioner killed someone. Nobody knows who, they… they can’t tell, Anya. But papa told me to tell you. Said for you to come as fast as you can.”

The smile disappeared from Anya’s face. She looked over at Andor, then started rushing around the room, grabbing her threadbare coat, then packing up all the papers and journals, hiding them behind a loose board in the wall. Andor bit his lip. If only.. he found himself wishing he could fly away, go back to being a wanderer, a hermit. But this was his responsibility.

Anya climbed down the ladder into the bar, Andor following her as they sprinted outside the bar. Evelyn led them, but Andor’s feet stalled in the muddy road. A pillar of black smoke was starting to rise in the air. His wings fluttered. He could fly. Ditch the cloak, the revolution, find an untouched corner of the world.

No god would listen to him, no guard would heed his cries. That power in his blood would be there, though, his Ianite, his strength—

“Come on!” Anya cried, already down the street.

Andor clenched his jaw.

He sprinted after her, the cloak rippling and snapping around him.


	52. Eternal Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gijsbert tries to relive the memory of his dearly departed. He gets more than he was asking for.

Dusk had fallen outside. Gijsbert made little lights flutter in the air around him.

He rubbed his eyes free of the chalk dust that had gotten in them. Tucker was taking a break to get something to eat, a break that he took willingly. Gijsbert stared down at the circle he’d drawn, perfect from years of practice, round as a Catherine wheel. As he had so many times before, he stepped into the circle. Really, it was nothing but a calming mechanism. Like a child’s blanket. But nevertheless, he sat in the circle, flipping up his hood.

His face was shrouded in darkness, but he could see the floorboards, the black line of chalk crossing over the wood. Tucker wouldn’t be back for a while, he hoped. And even if he did come back early, maybe he’d ask to be taught. Of course, he would teach him. He’d teach him every single thing under the sun and then some. It felt nice, having someone to talk to, someone who told him things he didn’t know.

He let his eyes slip shut. Cyperian. The comfortable, familiar smell of rain-flowers in the morning. He felt himself start to float off the ground, mind reaching out into the darkness. All there would be was darkness. Desert sand, all those books. Cyperian. The sky, tearing open like paper. Ladia bellowing at the top of her lungs. Towers falling. Cyperian, Cyperian. Warm in his arms the night before. Just the night before.

Weeks after, a gallows built there. It was built out of scrap metal and wooden planks, but they had found enough rope. He’d expected a brass bull. Stoning. Flaying. A pit of lions. Quartering. Slow slicing. An axe to behead. Scaphism. No, just a noose, a wooden frame. They covered his face, it could’ve been anyone. Gijsbert watched. Why did he cry that day, why did he cry that day, why did he cry that day, why did he cry that day, why did he cry that day, why did he cry that day, why did he cry that day, why did he cry that day—

A sharp pang went through his skull. He saw a tree. A bare tree, it’s branches reaching into the sky. What? What was he seeing— he felt someone. Someone. Alive. Alive.

“Hello?”

Gijsbert's eyes flew open. He crashed to the ground, wheezing, eyes wide open. He scrambled over to the edge of the circle and scrubbed at the chalk dust. It didn’t move. It felt like charcoal- like it was burnt into the floor. He scrubbed at it, trying to scratch it out of the floor. Impossible. How— how? How? Hot tears dripped down his face, blinding him. His fingers had started bleeding from digging at the chalk. It wouldn’t cover it. The door creaked. Fuck.

He tossed his robe over the circle, leaving him in only a white shirt and loose, black pants. Quickly, he shape-shifted his face to be pale as porcelain, blood rushing out of his once flushed cheeks. The wounds on his hands closed up.

Tucker looked at him, raising a brow, raking his eyes up and down his body. Gijsbert smirked, watching as Tucker did as well. Everything under the sun…

“Right! Now, where were we?”


	53. Our Lots in Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom and Lev discuss their next step. They get interrupted.

The buildings cast long, straight shadows into the clearing, and Tom couldn’t stop smiling. The air felt cold. They’d been talking for hours upon hours in an abandoned, overgrown lot behind some big building. Tom sat on a rock, scrubby grass growing all around him. There might’ve been a building here once, scraps of scaffolding and brick all over the land. Lev was crouched right by him, talking in low tones. They’d talked about gods and shadows and far off cities, but now Lev was getting to the good bits— how to free Dianite.

“Kuljät is where the portal to the Nether is. Last one on the face of the earth—“

“Can’t we just make one?”

Lev looked at him like he had grown a second head.

“Fucking no? That would take a lot of, lot of power. Magic, I mean. It’s a no go. But inside this portal, there’s rumored to be a grand garden.”

Tom laughed, “A garden? Really! In the nether of all places… son of a bitch! That’s what he meant! Dianite said he affected the world around him in his prison— he made the Nether all pretty n shit! Awh.”

Lev smiled, and it was bright even though their eyes were covered. They reminded him of Steve in a way— eyes covered and fighting for Dianite. Hell, this was like the talks with Steve he had. Just a different accent this time. Tom smiled, a wave of nostalgia threatening to bring tears to his eyes.

“Yes, our god is the god of nature. Of beautiful things. Even if we don’t free him, I could die happy knowing I’ve beheld his glory. Oh yes, I hear it’s… really pretty. There’s a better word.”

Tom thought for a moment. A shadow went over them, disappeared as quickly as it came.

“Very pretty!” He exclaimed. Lev’s face was pale.

“Shut,” Lev hisses, concern on his bandaged face. “Someone…” he curses in another language, then slaps his hand over Toms mouth, trying to yank him back. Tom staggers back, then breaks away from Lev’s grip.

“What the fuck—?”

A thunderous noise filled the air. Again and again. That shadow appeared, then got darker and darker as a form lowered to the ground. Lev’s hand pulled away from his mouth. The figure landed. They were clad in a heavy, dark armor that shifted and gleamed, even in the low light of almost night. They were carrying a sword in a sheath, a whip at their hip. And scarily of all, they were framed by a set of huge, dark wings.

They took off their helmet, revealing a woman’s face. Purple hair, a third eye. Tom’s heart was thudding in his chest. She wasn’t looking at him.

“I’ve wished you were dead for the past twelve years,” she called.

“I thought you were,” Lev replied, shocked.

Tom looked between them, back and forth.

“Who the fuck is this?”

Lev stepped forward, flipping the hood of his cloak down.

“Celia Deorum,” Lev said, tone cold, “Champion to Lady Ianite. My sister.”

Tom’s jaw dropped.

“YOUR WHAT?!?!?”

Celia drew her sword before Lev could say anything, brandishing it with a flourish.

“For high crimes against Ianite, Vatredas, and the people of this realm, you are both sentenced to death. Submit or die by my hand.”

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on…”

Tom pulled out his knife. A good fight. Just what he was looking for.

“…But I’m still gonna fuck up your shit.”

Lev grabbed him by the wrist.

“This is the time where we run. Come on.”

Tom shook off his grip.

“Yeah, I’m not about that. Let’s go.”

Celia flourished her blade in her hand again, and put her helmet on. She charged, wings folded tightly against her back.

Lev stepped forward. With one swift movement they tore off their bandages. Tom watched, frozen, as flowers and thick green vines began to grow from where their eyes were supposed to be, writhing in the air before wrapping around Celia. They cooled around her wings, trying to— holy shit, trying to break the bone! Tom ran at Celia, but she started to hack away at the vines. Lev screamed, clutching their face and staggering back. Celia swung her sword at Tom, who ducked. He slashed with his knife, the metal clattering against her sword. He ducked, and grabbed the hilt of the sword— it was a little big. He yanked it from her grasp.

“Ha! Got your fuckin sword!”

She blinked, shocked, then pulled a thin garrote and a knife from her hip. She lunged at him. Tom screeched and stumbled back. Fuck, she was fast. The exhilaration of the battle was nothing compared to the fear starting to build up, sweat pouring down his face.

He tried to block as she swung. Their wrists collided. She wasn’t holding the knife in that hand. Her knife slashed across his chest, sharp pain sobering him. There was no fear, no thrill, only fight.

Lev had gotten vines around her again, coiled tight around her wings. Tom touched his chest, his hand came back bloody. He tightened his grip on the knife and rammed into her, sending them both to the ground of the lot. He straddled her waist, the knife above his head. The plate of armor covering her chest seemed thin. With a guttural cry, he brought down the knife—

—only to hear the clang of metal on metal as it collided with thick armor. The metal had shifted! As if it was liquid, almost. Tom watched, thoroughly stunned, as the metal crawled up her arm and onto her fist.

She swung. Her iron fist connected with his temple with a crack. Stars burst behind his eyes. He toppled over, ears ringing and world blurry. He touched his temple. Blood. The pain spiked with each beat of his heart. Lev and her were still fighting. Thorny vines and flower petals flew through the air, but his vision was too blurry to tell who was winning. Tom curled up into a ball, the world spinning around him. He clutched the knife.

“Dianite,” He keened, blood and hot tears pouring down his face, “Help me. Please.”

The knife heated in his grip.

** _ You know I can’t. _ **

“I don’t want to die, I don’t, please.”

The knife went cold. 

** _ I’m sorry. _ **

Tom heard Lev screech. He looked up. The vines were laying limp. Celia shrugged off the last of them, and stomped over to Tom. Tom uncurled and tried to stumble back, but the world spun like a top. Celia loomed over him, a maniacal grin shining under her helmet. She rose her knife—

And looked out into the horizon. Her face fell. She growled. The metal of her armor poured down her leg, onto her foot. She lifted it. And stomped on Tom’s knee with all her might. Tom screamed as the bone cracked, trying to writhe away. The pain was making his vision start to go black, black as Celia’s wings.

Tom felt the last bits of consciousness slip from him as Celia took off, the beating of her wings as loud as his heartbeats.

A cold breeze drifted through the lot.


	54. Smoke Over the Wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andor and Anya rush to the Northern Gate to see for themselves the damage that was done. They make a stand. Celia arrives on the scene.

The smoke rose steadily from where a cart was burning, burning, burning. Andor, Anya and Evelyn were in the thick of the crowd, Anya shouted to the people next to her, asking what was happening. She was talking to a man in a stained grey shirt with thinning hair. Then, she nodded, and turned to Andor, face downcast.

“They don’t know who was killed. Nobody does. The body’s face was… gone. Hands gone, too. Cut cleanly. And that cart… oh. Oh. It was filled with grain. Burned…”

She turned back to the man. Andor heard her asking about funeral rites, where the body would be buried. All around him were people, bodies bumping and shouting. They were still, but they were screaming. It was everything he ever dreamed of, every little fantasy packed into a moment, and he had no clue what to do.

Anya grabbed him by the wrist.

“They can’t get the body to bury. It’s laying by the cart.”

“Shouldn’t we go up there?” Andor asked. Anya paused, looking all around her, then nodded, determined. She started to walk forward. The crowd parted around her as she walked, people setting their hands on her shoulder, or saluting her. Andor could hear muttered prayers as they walked to the crowd, finally coming to the front. A few executioners stood there, still and stoic and proud. Their wings rustled in the wind. Now that he was closer to it, Andor could see how thick and dense the smoke was, billowing over the wall.

Anya looked at Andor.

“Do you have a plan?”

Andor's fingers twitched. He wished he had his rapier, or something— even his boomerang. But that wasn’t whole anymore, was it? The other half probably floated through the void somewhere, or sunk into the dead, dry ground of Ruxomar.

“Get them to listen,” Andor said, “Get a chip into the wall. Show them how this goes against our lady.”

Anya smiled. They nodded, and stepped forward.

A dark form entered the smoke. It started rushing down, heavy wing beats filling the air. The figure hit the ground with a clank of armor, the crowd huddling back.

“Who is that?” Andor asked.

A purple haired woman stepped out of the smoke. She saw the cart, the body, and talked to the other executioners by her side. Then she spread her wings— huge and black— and beat the smoke into the crowd. Anya covered her eyes with her arm.

“Celia, Champion to Ianite.”

The smoke cleared with a few more wing beats, but the cart still burned. The crowd was alight with noise, especially as they noticed Celia, her armor glinting in the firelight.

“Citizens of Outer Vatredas!” She bellowed. “Clear the premises. Disperse. Go back to your houses. This unfortunate accident will be investigated.”

Not a single soul moved.

“Disperse,” she growled, drawing her blade, “Or face the wrath of Ianite herself!”

Almost the whole crowd drew back, screaming. But two stepped forward. Only by an inch, but it was a start.

“Do you believe this is right, that this is just?” Andor shouted over the crowd.

“We are starving outside of these walls,” Anya continued, “Working the ground and harvesting food we cannot eat— that we are not allowed to eat. That cart was the labor of these people, every last bit of grain.”

Andor felt something boiling in him— magic? Passion? He couldn’t tell the difference. Anya was smiling.

“Ianite is the goddess of balance, not order, and she would be disgusted by what is happening in this city, the rich only gaining, the poor losing what little they have. Change must be done!” Anya cried.

“Is this really Ianite’s will? To kill and burn and subjugate? This is not balance! This is slaughter— war!”

Anya looked at him nervously. The crowd stared inching back forward a little, as if drawn.

“We can solve this peacefully. But that does not change the fact that blood has been spilled— innocent blood— this and many other times before. Champion of Ianite, our goddess’ will— balance, compassion, equality— must be done!” Anya finished, flourishing her words like Celia flourished her sword.

The crowd erupted in shouts and cries.

Celia clenched her jaw.

“I’m her champion, girl. I know damn well what her will is. Now stand down, or face arrest.”

Andor's heart was beating rapidly in his chest. He could feel his breathing getting faster. His fear hit him like a brick— that sword, that fine rapier— it glinted in the firelight. The moon was dull in the sky compared to it. But there again came that burning. He didn’t care what it was anymore. He stood his ground.

Celia raised her sword.


	55. And Back Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sonja and Tucker finally reunite.

Pushing through the crowd took surprisingly long, getting into the library even harder. Ladia was stuck outside holding the door for about half an hour as people came and went. Then, an hour wandering the massive halls of the library, asking around for the librarian. Finally, someone on the second floor with their face buried in a book said he was in his study. So Ladia took her by the hand and led her upstairs. Sonja’s heart was doing somersaults in her chest. Tucker, Tucker could be here. They came to a door. Ladia pounded a massive fist against it.

“Not now!” A voice from inside said.

“Gijsbert!” Ladia bellowed, “It’s Ladia. Open the door.”

The door opened a sliver, then was flung all the way open, a man with black hair, pale skin and heavy bags under his eyes smiled up at them. His grey eyes were lined with black eyeliner. Sonja stifled a laugh— he stood a full foot shorter than Ladia! Sonja looked over him into the study. A black robe laid on the floor, books were everywhere. And sitting at a desk—

She pushed past Gijsbert, the only sound she could hear was the blood rushing in her ears. All over she was shaking. Tucker still looked at his book. His shirt was a little loose— she could see a deep scar on his shoulder. He had let her go. She was separated from them.

Yet somehow, she found her way back.

“…Tucker?” She whispered. Tucker froze. He turned around slowly, eyes huge with disbelief. Nervously, she waved.

“Sonja!”

Tucker lept from the chair with a shout, wrapping her in a crushingly tight hug, and Sonja crushed him back. He lifted her off the ground and she squeaked, especially as he started to spin her around, chanting her name over and over again.

“Sonja, Sonja, Sonja— oh my god, we thought you… we were so worried! Sonja!”

Sonja’s heart was in her throat, and she heard herself laughing. He was solid, her best friend.

After what felt like years, he set her down, but didn’t let go. She could feel his shuddering breaths. Tears soaked into her shirt.

“The rope burned when we fell— oh, Sonja! I was so— oh my god. Where were you?”

“Wilderness,” Sonja said, realizing she was crying too. “The middle of nowhere. I met someone named Lev, they took me here— I met Andor, outside the wall. He’s involved in another revolution. And Jordan— Jordan has wings. He’s an executioner.”

Tucker’s brows furrowed.

“Like, he’s killing people?”

“I don’t think so. He didn’t kill me, or Andor—“

“Preposterous,” Ladia snaps. “An executioner that doesn’t kill is like a fish that does not swim. Impossible.”

Gijsbert looked at Sonja. “Is he a one-wing?”

“No, he has both his wings. What do you mean, one-wing?”

“Never mind,” Gijsbert said. Sonja glared at him. He faltered. “Well,” he continued, “Executioners who don’t—“

“I can’t believe he would do something so hare-brained!” Ladia exclaimed, “I thought he was the smart one! I thought he was sensible. Poor thing— I can’t believe…”

Tucker wiped his face.

“I can. Believe it, I mean. Ianite means the world to him. I’ve done… awful things…”

“In the name of Mianite? Like the Ianitas?”

Tucker looked at her in shock.

“Oh. Ladia's cool?”

“I’m cool,” Ladia repeated. Tucker nodded.

“I’m his champion. Was. Is? Either way. I’ve done awful things, but that comes with the territory. Jordan was Ianite's— he always prioritized her. And we got into a pretty bad argument, so… Martha told me he thinks Ianite is like the first Ianite. Or the second one. I wish I could do something.”

An awkward silence fell over the four of them. Sonja took his hand, gently squeezing. He squeezed back.

“We’ll discuss it back at the Inn,” Ladia decrees. “Martha and her boy might be back. Same with Tom. Gijsbert— why’s your robe on the floor?”

“Oh.” He says, a little thrown. “Oh! I felt dreadfully hot, so I took it off.”

Ladia nodded, then stood.

“To the inn?”

Sonja squeezed Tucker’s hand, beaming like a sun in the night. She’d found Tucker— his hands were hot in hers. Wag, Tom, Jordan…

“To our friends.”


	56. Hindsight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jordan rushes to find Tom. He hopes he finds him alive.

Smoke rose in a massive, billowing plume over the wall. It blocked out the moon. Jordan ran by only the glow of streetlights, tripping over his feet, his wings. Dirty feathers fluttered behind him. They were his. He didn’t care. He’d seen Celia’s black wings cut through the sky just a little further…

What if he was too late? And Tom was…

Graveyards were inside and outside the walls, with new and old graves alike. And if Dianite and Mianite were trapped— then that meant no re-spawning. Death. Permanent, real death.

Jordan came to an empty lot. Tom laid on the ground, a person with flaming red hair and bloody bandages wrapped around his face crouching over him, hands pressing on his chest. Jordan’s heart dropped to his gut. Gasping, he broke out into a sprint. His whole body screamed in protest, especially as he got closer, falling to his knees by Tom, looking him over. He pressed his fingers to his throat. A pulse. Steady. Steady, steady, steady. Hot tears filled Jordan’s eyes.

“Are you his friend?” The person asked.

Jordan nodded, feeling tears pour down his face. Toms leg was bent the wrong way. His knife was still in his hand, his fingers softly curled around the handle. Questions surged through Jordan’s mind— was this Celia’s work? Why hadn’t she finished the job? Who was this person—

“I’m Lev,” they said, as if reading his mind. “Introductions done. Help me.”

Jordan nodded, and scooped Tom up in his arms, even though his arms still trembled. He couldn’t hook his arm under Tom’s knee, so under his thighs his other arm went. Jordan grit his teeth, hoisting his friend up into his arms. The air reeked of smoke, overwhelmingly so, a huge pillar billowing into the sky. Tom shifted in his arms. Jordan looked down at him, wishing he had a hand free to wipe the dirt and blood off his face.

“We have to go,” Lev said.

But where to? Not the temple, Celia had gone after Tom— and something told Jordan that Rha was okay with it. The streets seemed empty now that he was looking around. Actually, they were. Not a single person was out. Maybe they were all hidden in their houses because of the business with the smoke. Or, they were peering at whatever was going on at the smoke, willingly looking at the lives outside from theirs.

That left only one place he knew. Oh, oh Tom…

“The Cinnamon Grove Inn.”

Lev nodded. It looked like one of their arms were longer than the other. Jordan couldn’t tell, what with the thick cloak they wore. Lev flipped up their hood.

“What? Is there a doctor there—“

“I think— the owner, Ladia, she said she used to be a medic. Come on, we have to go.”

Lev nodded, and ran in front of him.

Jordan followed through empty streets, weighted down by Tom and his own useless wings.


	57. Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rha begs Ianite to understand what is happening. Ianite answers.

Smoke over the walls. He had the oddest feeling he’d seen it before. Rha Deorum had a plate of food sat on his lap, and he sat on the roof of his house. He brought another forkful to his mouth, emptily chewed, and swallowed. It felt wrong in his mouth. He tossed the plate off the roof, and it shattered into thousands of little pieces. With a groan, he flopped onto his back. The stars seemed dull, the void they hung in much more interesting.

God, what had Celia done to Tom? Would she come home with his body? With Lev's? Rha stared into the void above him, feeling very small. Andor. What happened to him?

“My lady,” Rha whispered, voice feeling weak, “What is going on? I can’t help but… I still have faith in you. I believe in you. That this is your will. But I need to know, for certain. Have I done something? What will happen to this city, this world?”

He couldn’t look away from the void, the space between stars. A heaviness started to crawl over his body, keeping him cemented onto the roof.

“I need to know,” he begged. “Please.”

Nothing. No, not nothing. Nothingness. The stars were blinking out of the sky, one by one. Ianite?

** _ Yes, it’s me. I have matters to attend to. You are my priest, once, long ago, my executioner. _ **

That heaviness wrapped around his skull and over his eyes, his mouth. Strange things started to flash before his eyes, visions.

“Ianite?” Rha croaked, struggling to breathe.

** _ The knowledge you seek comes with pain. Never ending pain. _ **

“I don’t care anymore. Tell me. Please. I need to know.”

The skies silence was deafening. The void seemed to deepen.

** _ That is a dangerous thing, to not care. But if it would assuage you, I will let you in on a little secret. _ **

The world lit up in purple flames all around him. They coalesced into people, places. Ships, knives, pillars of ice. Blinding light and all encompassing shadow. Andor, standing before his sister. Tom unconscious, Celia with her sword raised. Lev by Tom. Jordan by him too, closer. Places he’d never seen before, places he’s seen every day through someone else’s eyes. Vaguely he could feel his body thrashing and shaking, wings fully extended, kicking up stardust in the night. Kuljät, a wicked sword, a god killer, some man who dealt in blood and storms.

It all unfolded in front of him, a macabre dance with too many moving parts to keep track of. And yet he knew it all, he knew it all, every little detail.

Little by little, that heaviness faded away, leaving him panting on the roof. His mouth tasted like blood from biting his tongue. Oh. That all made sense now. He looked over— his wings were silver, glimmering in the light. With a shaking hand he touched the feathers. Cold metal feathers made of actual silver.

Rha started sobbing. Hot tears poured freely down his face. He wailed into the void, louder than any breaking. Louder than anything that has been or would ever be. And he knew. He knew all of it. Rha gasped for air. Weeping hysterically, he sat up, burying his face in his hands.

** _ Then it is settled. You are my eyes. You are my voice. But even then, this information cannot be leaked to anyone. Doing so would be hazardous. I trust you will know what to do. _ **

A force tightened around his mouth like a muzzle.

** _ Let’s keep it all between us._**


	58. An Aftermath that will Never Arrive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jordan and Lev get Tom to the Inn. Jordan wishes that he could do something to fix the past. Turns out, he can only help the present. (Who would have thought)

Ladia wasn’t there. Nobody was. The only person inside the walls of the Inn was Wag, who was laying down in bed when they arrived. He sat up, bleary eyed and tired looking.

“Wings?” Wag asked, rubbing his eyes. Lev was behind Jordan, looking nervously over his shoulder.

“Tom—“

“Tom gave you wings?”

Jordan shook his head, arms starting to quiver and give.

“No— Tom’s hurt, help me.”

Wag stood, eyes going wide as he saw Tom. He rushed over to him, helping Jordan lay Tom down on a bed, taking off his shirt and pants to examine the damage. There was a slash across his chest— it would need cleaning. Blood still trickled from his head, the cut in his chest. And his knee… Jordan felt his stomach twist. He didn’t want to look at it.

“Can’t you heal him—“

Wag went pale.

“No. No I can’t. I can’t. Magic’s been acting up lately— I can’t help him, I’m sorry.”

Jordan looked at Wag, worried. Wag looked past him, at Lev, who was holding a bottle of alcohol.

“Why don’t you tell your new friend to come over here?” Wag said. His nose twitched.

Lev stalked into the room, passing the bottle off to Jordan. Jordan thanked them, finding some of the gauze Ladia had, and pouring some alcohol onto it. He delicately cleaned the slash on Tom’s chest, then bandaged it with more gauze. It probably needed stitches. Jordan looked down at his quivering hands. Nope, not happening.

“I think— I think he’ll be okay.”

Lev sighed, sitting heavily on the bed next to Wag. They took off their bandages, little flowers growing where their eyes should’ve been. They cracked their neck, a few leafy vines starting to grow, a bit of plant matter growing from their scalp, mingling in with their hair. The two of them watched in silence as Lev stood, casually slipping off their cloak. It fell to the floor with a soft noise.

Underneath that they wore a torn white shirt. It looked like their arm was half severed— but growing back together at the shoulder, a tangle of plant matter. That wasn’t the only place with plants. Blossoms and plants grew out of their skin, vines wrapping around their forearms and calves like rope. Their face was unreadable, a maw of sharp teeth smiling at them.

Wag whistled, then silence fell in the room. Jordan fiddled with the hem of his shirt, and sat on the bed next to Tom. Celia did this. In the name of Ianite. Impulsively, he laid down next to Tom. His hand went to his throat. Jordan counted the beats of his heart. Steady thudding. He’d wake up.

Jordan shut his eyes, whole body trembling as he raised one of his wings, and draped it over Tom like a huge, dirty blanket. He heard Tom make a little grumbling noise in his sleep. Yes, he’d wake up. He’d be fine. Tom was like a cockroach— in the best way possible of course, always coming back, reliable to the point of predictability.

There was so, so much he wanted to say. So much he wanted to do, so many parts of the past he wanted to fix, make better, make their past something that could lead to something more. Maybe it already could.

“You okay?” Wag asked, staring down at his lap.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” Jordan responded, "You?”

Wags hands balled into fists on his lap.

“I’ll be fine.”

Jordan nodded, wishing something more could be done. But all that he could do was shield Tom from the cold, and whatever else would come their way. And he would do the same for Sonja, Tucker, Wag— all of them.

Even if that meant forever.


	59. What Once Was

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andor is struggling to separate the present and the past. Anya, however, is more than intent on working on the future.

Celia’s sword was still up and drawn. There was no denying it- Andor was scared out of his wits, sweating, hands shaking. His confidence had died in the silence, his heart pounding at a frenzied pace. But not Anya’s. She was calm as ever. Celia marched forward, the crowd jostling back, shouting. Andor ran to Anya’s side.

“I don’t have anything, she has armor, I don’t even have a knife. What the hell do we do?” He whispered quickly.

“Stand down and go home!” Celia cried, “or die by my hand!”

Anya looked at Andor, then at Celia.

“Kill me,” Anya said, demanding the silence of the entire crowd. Celia’s brows furrowed. “You heard me. Go on. Make a martyr of me for all these people to see. This time it will be different, because they are here to see. Be a testimony to all the cruelty you claim our Goddess condones.”

Andor paled. Fuck, she was going to get herself killed! Yet, he could see the people watching at the gate— some of them even listening. They were kept back by common sense and a few executioners, but they would hear. They would hear every word.

“It is my duty to keep the balance,” Celia snapped.

The crowd was starting to gain energy, shouting breaking out, surging forward inch by inch, closer and closer to the burning cart. Andor looked around.

“Anya, this is suicide—“

“You’re not trying to keep balance,” Anya said. Andor nodded, forcing himself to focus on that strange, boiling thing inside of him. No more fear. Please, no more fear.

“You’re trying to keep order,” Andor cried, “Order is not our goddess’ domain, right?”

Celia grit her teeth, staring out into the crowd. Suddenly, that fear rushed back into him, and he was nothing more than the helpless boy in that cell in Inertia, weeping hysterically as the man with a bone saw did his work, or the one with the needles— what the hell made him think of that? Regardless, he felt trapped. Suffocating. Scared and helpless and shaking. Make Ianite proud. Make Martha proud. Do something right for once.

Anya stared Celia down, shouting as loud as she could;

“No. It’s Mianite’s! What does that make you— a traitor to these people, and our Lady, for not upholding her balance.”

She paused for dramatic effect, the crowd starting to boil over, shouting and pressing forward. Anya looked Celia dead in the eyes, then past her, staring at the people gathered at the gates.

“You are just like the traitors you kill.”

Celia charged, a little flap of her wings propelling her forward. She raised her sword in the air—

Andor shoves Anya out of the way. Celia’s blade cut into his shoulder and down, until it reached his chest… then it stopped, caught on something. Celia pulled her sword from his body, staring at the blood on her blade. And Andor watched as the blood on his hands started slowly floating back into his body. He laughed, a little hysterical. More than a little hysterical.

Around him, the whole crowd was screaming, the executioners starting to fight, civilians fleeing or throwing rocks, bricks. Someone grabbed him. Pulled him up from the ground- when had he fallen? It was Anya— Anya had pulled him up. Then she took his other hand, which was connected to an arm that was perfectly fine. His head was spinning as the crowd around them ran.

“Andor? Andor— we have to go. We have to go.”

“What happened?” He slurred. He blinked a little, not really feeling any pain. All he felt was a boiling need. To tear Celia's throat out. To escape. To fly away, pick off his skin until he was something that felt more like himself.

Screaming. Was he screaming? No, he was in Inertia. Cold. Like the void. He was still in Inertia. All of this was a hallucination. At any time there would be someone to kick him in the chest, tear his wings off again. He looked down at his hands. There was no blood left on them. His arm didn’t even hurt.

Anya slapped him in the face.

“Come on! We have to go! Staying is suicide!”

Suddenly, he remembered he didn’t want to die.

So he ran. Anya followed behind him as he bolted, running along the wall of Vatredas.

Running like a coward.


	60. Home

The streets were empty. Sonja hadn’t been in the city long, but the fact that they were so suddenly empty disturbed her. The night was dark besides the streetlights lit with little orbs of glowing magic, ethereal and strange. Finally, a pale haired person appeared before them right outside of the Inn. It was Martha.

“What’s going on?” She asked. Ladia answered her with a shrug. Martha looked down from Ladia’s face, then met Sonja’s eyes. She gasped, covering her face with her hands.

“Oh my god, Sonja! You’re safe!”

Sonja smiled and charged Martha, squeezing her tightly and sweeping her off her feet, Martha yelping and holding on for dear life as they spun. Finally, she set her down, Martha looking a little dizzy, but still holding on tightly to her.

“We all thought you were—“

“—dead? Yeah, yeah, I thought you all had forgotten about me.”

“We could never forget you,” Tucker piped up from the crowd.

_Says the one who let go_… no. The rope burned. She had to trust him. Somehow.

She smiled his direction, then turned her attention back to Martha, who took her hand and started leading her into the Inn. Her heart pounded frantically in her chest as Martha opened the door, and her hand slipped from Martha’s grip as she rushed inside. The tavern was empty. Stairs. They were upstairs! She bolted up the stairs, and threw the first door open.

Her breath left her lungs. There, on the bed, was Lev and Wag. And there, on another bed…

“Jordan? Tom?”

The pile of feathers— Jordan’s wings— resting on the bed perked up, revealing a tan face, black hair, and the face of a zombie— awake, but looking worse for wear. Tom’s jaw hung slack in shock.

“Sonja..?”

She ran into the room, Wag standing to crush her in a hug. Tom whined and tried to grab at them, which made them all crouch down by him, making a warm, awkward, crushing pile that Tucker eventually wormed his way into. Tom was babbling, then grabbed her head and kissed her on the forehead. Wag’s face was buried in her shoulder and he was crying. So was Tom, she was pretty sure.

And for a moment she wondered how she could ever feel shoved aside or forgotten among these heroes, how she ever felt like the odd one out when they wept over her return. But what happens after she’s returned and settled back into their lives? What happens when Mianite realizes that Tucker is the champion, not her?

“There we go,” Wag whispered, “Now everything’s back to normal, we’re all together.”

Sonja pulled back a little from the hug, staring at Jordan.

“You all have some questions to answer.”

Tom jokingly saluted, looking pained as he did so.

“I got fucked up by Ianite’s Champion.”

“We got fucked up by Ianite’s Champion,” Lev drawled, their bandages off and revealing the plant matter that thrives under their skin (which was cool as FUCK in Sonja’s opinion), “It was our ass beating. Eh? Also. Ianite’s Champion is my sister, Celia Deorum.”

“Small world.”

“Not very,” Lev said, “But it was your executioner friend who saved us.”

Jordan flushed red. Sonja couldn’t help but smile… that was going against Ianite, she thought, he really was more than hers. Sonja looked down Tom’s body—

“What happened to you?” Ladia asked. She grabbed Jordan’s wing and tugged it off of Tom, staring at his knee. Jordan clamored off the bed and so did Sonja and Wag, giving him space. Tucker stayed close by, brows furrowed in shock.

“I had her on the ropes!” Tom slurred, “I stole her fucking sword. Fuck! Careful!” Ladia touched the bit of blood at his temple.

“Then what?” Ladia asked, voice filled with concern.

“…dunno. My knee. My knee hurts. She, she stomped on it.”

Sonja looked at his knee. God. That was bad.

“How do you feel?” Ladia asked.

“Nauseous, saw fuckin’ stars— where… god. I feel awful.”

“What is your name?”

“Uh. Tom. My name’s Tom.”

“Where are you?”

“…dunno. Wait. The Inn.”

Ladia looked him over, waved her finger slowly in front of his face. He didn’t follow with his eyes.

“Concussed,” Ladia said, “She gave you a concussion. Gijsbert, ice. Ginger—“

“It’s Lev.”

“Sure. Lev, keep his head still. Jordan, there are towels in the bathroom for a washcloth. And Tucker. What did you do with that slash you gave yourself? Please tell me it isn’t infected.”

Sonja glared at Tucker. Why would he— blood magic. If she didn’t have her thaumanomicon and scanner, then why would he have anything of his?

“Got Gijsbert to heal it.”

Jordan stepped out of the room, probably to retrieve something to wrap the ice in. Martha sighed.

“Wings,” she whispered, “He really is an executioner. I can’t believe…”

“I saw him a few days ago,” Sonja admitted, “Same with Andor.”

All eyes were on her, Tucker and Wag curious, Gijsbert, Ladia and Lev confused, and Martha worried. Oh, so worried.

“Was he okay?” Martha asked, “He’s not been back here— I’ve not seen him since he left!”

“He’s safe, I’m pretty sure,” Sonja said, “Taking up with the revolution outside of the city wall with a woman named Anya. He gave a really good speech about balance and Ianite and all that. Then Jordan broke in, and he screamed at him, ‘I invite you’. His voice did the wind thing, like when he was on the docks. Jordan ran.”

The room was silent.

“Did Andor see you?”

“No, just Jordan. I don’t know what he’s up to now…”

Tom screeched, Sonja looking over to see Ladia crouched over his bed. She’s cut off his pants above the knee to give herself access, and, oh god, it looked horrible. Definitely broken. Bruised, slightly bent the other way… Sonja swallowed.

“Wag,” she whispered, “Can you heal this..?”

“No,” he snapped.

“Are you even going to fucking try?” Tucker cried.

Wag stared at his feet.

“No.”

Tucker, Sonja and Ladia all glared at Gijsbert, who held up his hands in defeat, a little snow fluttering down onto the floor.

“Don’t look at me, I’m no healer. I was lucky I didn’t fuck up Tucker’s cut.”

Jordan stepped back into the room, holding a towel that Gijsbert dropped a small pile of ice in. Jordan passed it off to Ladia, wings close to his body, and she held it to Tom’s head.

“Your knee will need a splint. Maybe healing. You won’t be able to walk for a while while it heals. Which may take a while, since the only wizards in this room are… unskilled in healing, and any public healers would probably call Celia on you.”

Tom nodded, Sonja unsure if he even understood what Ladia was saying. Hell, she didn’t even know what Ladia was saying— what had Tom done…? Wait. Lev said… was Tom the man Lev had been looking for? To free their father? She sighed. Oh, that was confusing.

And what was a one-wing? Gijsbert had mentioned it when they were talking… she looked at Jordan, who was standing in the corner, nervously staring at Tom, unsure. Where has that prideful confidence gone? Same with Wag. What had happened to them?

Sonja looked around the room. This whole thing was a little… bittersweet. They were all together again, but so much has happened while they were away.

But they were back together again, wings and spiders and all, with a wide future ahead of them.

She sat on one of the beds, looking at Tucker, Tom, Wag and Jordan…

“Tell me everything.”


	61. Cover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andor and Anya get pulled into safety by a friend.

Andor was running, clinging to Anya’s hand. The pain of the cut that should’ve taken off his arm still raged through his body, especially now that his shock had faded. Now all he knew was pain and running, running and pain.

Suddenly, Anya stopped in her tracks. Andor slammed into her back and almost sent both of them toppling to the ground. He looked ahead of them, vision still blurry. There was a man— they’d come to stop in the middle of a dirt road. They’d run along the wall. The man was pale, but not sickly looking, tall and thin, long and lanky.

His hazel eyes went huge, and he silently extended a long arm, a gloved hand, to Anya. She didn’t take it, but nodded. Andor wanted to speak, say something. His tongue felt heavy and thick in his mouth. He spat in the dirt, following. Ianite be praised. He could still hear the sound of people fleeing. Running for their lives. Why were they following this man? They came to the gate. The executioners didn’t stop them, simply nodding, and letting them in.

“Who are you?” Andor tried to say.

It came out as drunk-sounding slurring. Anya looked back at him, face scrunched in worry. They stumbled through the streets— being led by this strange man— until they reached a pretty, wealthy neighborhood. Anya looked around them, then at the man. She squeezed his hand. She called out to the tall man, Andor couldn’t understand what she was saying. But then they split up, Andor letting himself be dragged, dragged over well-kept cobble streets.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone behind them. He turned with a wordless cry—

Mot. _Mot._

“Andor?” Mot asked, running up to the two of them. Anya tried to pull Andor along, but he was frozen in place. Andor stumbles out of her grasp and over to Mot, practically collapsing in the man’s arms. Mot staggered a little under his weight. Andor couldn’t bring himself to give a shit. He wept senselessly into Mot’s shoulder.

Then he was being led, again, Anya close behind.

—

Mot brought them to a house. A rather nice house, and knocked on the door. Dianite answered, head tilted and horns bumping against the door frame.

“Andor? What happened? And who… get in here. Fuck knows what’s going on outside.”

“A war,” Andor growled.

“A revolution,” Anya quickly corrected, anxiously eyeing Dianite and Mot. “Andor, how do you know these people?”

Andor pointed at Dianite. “Great uncle.” He gestured to Mot, but no words came.

Ianite his grandma. A disappointment to her. He felt his wings press against his cloak in a way he could only describe as claustrophobic. There was still a slit in the fabric from Celia’s blade. A sudden wave of anger crashed into him— how dare she? How dare she hurt him! How dare she take the name of Ianite in vain? How dare anyone in this goddamn city do nothing, nothing to stop the corruption out there— there in the city! There was war! There would be war!

Andor gasped for breath, realizing he’d said all of his thoughts aloud.

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t breathe with this goddamn cloak. Goddamn hiding, sneaking. Keeping quiet. Keep real quiet. Men with lead sheets and needles and the cold of Inertia and the void and he was trapped again, pulling at that slit in the cloak, yanking with all his might, tugging tugging tugging—

The cloak ripped all the way down to the bottom hem. It fell to the ground with the hiss of magic released back into the air, now nothing but a pile of golden dust. He flexed his white wings, spreading them, arching them as wide as he could. Then he relaxed. His shirt was torn where Celia had struck. Around the cut, little droplets of his own blood floated, like planets caught in orbit, stars in the sky.

And Mot was staring at him. And Dianite was staring at him. And Anya was staring at him too. Horrified and disgusted.

Andor swallowed. The fog over his mind lifted slightly.

“I can explain,” Andor slurred.

“You were an executioner this whole time?” Anya snapped.

“No, no I wasn’t, I’m not. I’m not.”

Anya took a step back, looking around. Dianite was in front of the door, staring forward, concerned and confused. Mot rubbed his temples, then pulled his scarf up a little.

“He’s not an executioner. There’s… shit with the multiverse. Even then, if he was, he’s behind your, er. Cause? I mean. He wouldn’t’ve been sliced up like that if he was loyal. Who’s side is Celia on?”

“She’s the Champion to Ianite,” Anya whispered. She stared at Andor’s arm. “That cut should’ve taken your arm off. How… how are you Ianite’s grandson…? What the fuck do you mean by multiverse?”

Dianite coughed. Everyone looked at him.

“You don’t know about the multiverse?”

Anya shook her head.

“I don’t know what the _fuck_ is going on.”

Andor extended his wings again, so glad to have them out. Mot sharply sighed.

“I’m going to go get a bottle of wine. I’m not having this conversation sober. And as for you—“

He pointed harshly to Andor,

“You better have a good reason as to why this is happening.”

Andor shrugged, because that’s all he could do. He didn’t know. Didn’t know what was going on. What was wrong with him.

Anya’s eyes bore into him, and he lowered his wings.


	62. To Life and Where it Leads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three tired, run down people walk into a bar.

After a good deal of screaming, Ladia told them to go downstairs. Wag, who was asleep on one of the cots, and Tom, who was the one doing the good deal of screaming, were the only two of the travelers who stayed.

Three champions walk into a bar. Or, if you are a cynic, a child-killer blood mage, flux-fox, and a hapless devotee walk into a bar. They play Rock Paper Scissors for who is to be bartender, then the flux-fox goes behind the bar, grabbing a bottle of strong, cheap alcohol and three glasses. It was clear as water, but the second Sonja uncorked the bottle she was hit with the pungent stench of alcohol, which quickly filled the room. It certainly smelled stronger than Jordan, which was saying something. His wings were almost brown in spots, and each time he moved them a cloud of dust would come out. There was a leaf stuck between two feathers. Sonja made no move to grab it.

She fills their glasses with a shot of the liquid. Tucker takes the bottle and pours himself more.

“To life,” Tucker said, raising his glass.

“To friends,” Sonja decreed, raising hers.

“To Tom almost dying. Again.” Jordan deadpanned. Tucker couldn’t help but chuckle, even as Jordan’s passive expression faded into a deep, dirty frown.

They clinked glasses. Tucker downed his whole glass like a shot, making a face and smacking his tongue with a few weird noises from the taste of the cheap liquor. Sonja’s nose scrunched up and Jordan looked surprisingly fine.

“Sonj,” Tucker asks, still reeling from the sharp, bile-like taste of the alcohol, “How did you find us?”

Sonja fills their glasses again.

“Oh. I fell in the middle of the woods. And Lev found me. They said they were coming here to find someone. I don’t know if they found them yet, but they saved me and saved Tom, so we can trust them.”

Jordan raised his glass.

“To knowing who we can trust.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Tucker said, leaning over the bar and taking a quick shot of his drink, “Fuck, that shit’s rough— never mind. But uh, last time. We all thought we could trust Mianite, and…”

“And you killed all the Ianitas,” Sonja said with a sympathetic look to Jordan.

Jordan looked at his drink and slammed it back, poured himself another one, and gave it the same treatment. Sonja protectively grabbed the bottle.

“Hi my name’s Tucker and I’m Mianite’s champion and a child murderer,” Jordan said, pointing at Tucker.

Tucker laughed uncomfortably. What had gotten Jordan to such a state was honestly beyond him, but also probably something to do with the whole Ianite thing. Jordan was usually a laid back guy, only upset when things went wrong (which they had a tendency to do—) but now he seemed… undone. Maybe it was because of this Ianite. She had gone from a mysterious god to a casual nature protector and now? What was she, a warlord? And as Ianite changed, Jordan changed right with her. But he was always her champion. Now it seemed like that position was taken.

Either way, it was a little concerning.

“Tucker, have you heard anything from Mianite?”

Tucker looked at Sonja and laughed dryly.

“Not a thing… honestly, I’ve been thinking about it and I might not even reach out to him. Like. I don’t know what he’s like, it could be just like last time where we were all like ‘oh nice reactors Mianite cool blah blah blah…”

“What are the odds of that happening again?”

“As infinite as the multiverse,” Jordan said, “I’m. Starting to doubt Ianite. Her followers, at least. Celia… what did Tom even do to deserve that? She— she was planning on killing him. And I don’t think the gods would step in, respawn him.”

Sonja shrugged.

“Mianite could.”

“He’s trapped,” Jordan insisted, “Like Dianite.”

Sonja looked at him, then poured herself another glass, then drank it down like a shot.

“He could still help me. Lots of… spiders. He froze most of the river. So, I guess I’m his champion now,” Sonja said smugly. Tucker finished his drink, then slammed it down on the bar.

“I doubt we can trust him. We have to go back home.”

“Home?” Sonja asked, “Ruxomar was destroyed.”

“Not there! Back to, ya know, the Land of Mianite… the first one. The Savanna. Home.”

Sonja looked at Jordan. Jordan shrugged.

“Maybe you could be happy here,” Jordan stated.

“Maybe you’re not letting yourself be happy,” Sonja said.

Tucker stood up straight, looking her dead in the eye. Sonja only tilted her head and shrugged, filling their glasses again.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Tucker snapped, “I’m Mianite’s goddamn champion. The first Mianite. The real Mianite. I chose to devote my life to him—“

“Then what was everything you did about?” Jordan, voice heavy. “You know. The blood magic. And slaughtering the Ianitas. But… I’m sure he’s the same as the first. Order and the Overworld.”

Tucker stood and stepped back from the bar, eyes wide. He runs his hands through his hair, messing it up.

“Like how he was the same back in Ruxomar? And how your lady’s the same? Come on, that’s ridiculous, you can’t really believe that.”

“It’s called having faith,” Jordan said, insistent.

“I do have faith! But he— he’s not my Mianite! He… he never will be either! Because my Mianite would— he is just, he’s orderly and good. He wouldn’t’ve done this to me, or any of us, unlike the rest of them—“

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Jordan said coldly. Tucker scoffed.

“It was Ianite who told us to jump, and look at us now! So fucking far from home! We probably could’ve fucking retraced our steps and got home…”

Tucker took a step back from the bar, bumping into Ladia, who had silently crept her way down the stairs. He shrieked, jumping a foot and clutching his heart.

“Sweet fuckin—“

“I want to check that cut,” Ladia said. Tucker looked at Sonja and Jordan, a little nervous. Sonja and Jordan gave one another awkward looks, Tucker taking off his shirt and holding it in his hands. Ladia looked over the cut. It was nothing more than a rope of twisted, painful scar tissue, a reminder of all the power he’d lost. The magic that he held was gone. Blood was no more than something that pumped through his veins.

Ladia clicked her tongue, and took her hands off his back.

“Now,” she said, “Back up to your friends.”

She went to the bar, taking the alcohol.

“That for the wound?” Jordan asked.

Ladia looked at the bottle, then at them.

“No, it’s for me. Your friend is very loud.”

“We know,” the three of them said at once. Jordan puffed out his wings a little, unsettled.

Ladia nodded, and left, looking very awkward— almost painfully so. Her footsteps were heavy as she rushed up the stairs, leaving the three ex-champions alone in the tavern.

Jordan coughed, a pathetic way to break the silence. He looked around nervously, then sipped the rest of his drink.

“So. Uh. Now what do we do?” Jordan asked, in the same way he always did.

Tucker ran his hands through his hair and groaned. He stomped over to the bar, slamming back Sonja’s drink.

“I’m going to talk to Dianite and Mot.”

Tucker squeezed his eyes shut and thought, imagining the inside of Mot and Dianite’s house. In only a second, he dissolved into a flurry of flower petals.

Sonja shrieked as he disappeared, but Jordan did nothing but stand and walk behind the bar, pulling out another bottle of alcohol.

His wings dragged heavily on the ground.


	63. Prophet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celia returns to Rha in the aftermath of everything that has happened.

Celia flew away once the last of the dissenters were captured. One by one they were taken away to the jail, some shackled, some tied, some bound only by their own fear. And Lev and his friend had somehow… escaped. Probably that scraggly little rat Rha pulled off the streets— she’d give him one last chance. But they weren’t her problem. Tomorrow when she would have to explain everything to the council it would be, but right now she was heading back to Rha.

She soared high in the sky, staring down at the city. It looked so tiny up here, people returning home through empty, lamp-lit streets. Even the market was silent, empty except for the warm night breeze that browsed around the stalls. Pulling her wings in, she dive bombed down by the temple, then spread them out at the last second, hovering above the roof. The smell of incense hung heavy in the air and she huffed, gliding to the roof of Rha’s house. As she landed her boots made a heavy metal clang on the surface of the roof.

On the roof was Rha, shrouded in wings that glimmered under the moon. Silver feathers that rose and fell and made an odd, otherworldly noise with every sob. His head was buried between his knees, but from what she could see, his hair was white as snow, gleaming silver like his wings. Celia gasped and Rha’s head shot up, staring her down with vibrant purple eyes. Black tears poured down his face, staining his cheeks and his shirt.

“What— what happened?”

Rha unfurled his wings with a noise that made Celia cover her ears in pain. An indescribable, horrible noise. She only uncovered them when she felt his arms wrap tightly around her, shaking like he was freezing.

“I know you.”

Celia’s metal gloves rippled off of her hands, and she held Rha’s face. His skin was so, so cold, and the black tears steamed as it touched her skin.

“Of course you do, Rha. You’re… when’s the last time you’ve slept? Or eaten?”

“I know _who_ you are,” he continued, “I… oh my god. Oh my god… I know who razed Yv’Anah. Who killed the last king. I know exactly what happened in Cypra, I know how the universe began, how it will end… I’ve seen the heart of Mianite. The hands of Dianite. The eyes of Ianite. She has shown me wonders. Horrors. Oh my god. Oh my god—“

He started to stutter like a mad man, clawing at his face with his hands. Celia tightened her grip around him.

“What are you talking about?” she pleaded, “Is it because of Lev? Because of the trouble outside? Rha, you’re not making sense.”

He wrapped his wings around her, a cold, metal embrace, and he buried his face in her shoulder. All over he was cold, colder than anything she had ever touched. She shivered at the feeling of his breath on her skin, chilled to the bone by his tears.

“I will,” Rha whispers, “Don’t worry, I will.”


	64. Wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andor and company try to explain the multiverse and the events of Ruxomar to Anya. Dianite forgets that he can get drunk now.

Mot had to take a moment to ponder divinity after Dianite’s second glass of wine. It seemed to have left him when they fell, and he was without magic, super strength, or any other protection godhood offered. Just a week ago they’d made stew, and Dianite cut his finger while chopping carrots. Mot had to calm him, wipe away his tears— ‘No, Dia darling, you won’t bleed out from that little scratch, hey, hey, don’t worry…’

So he could be injured with something besides a Kikoku. Which meant godhood could be stripped away. Which meant he could be stabbed. Which meant he could be crushed. Which meant—

“Mot, darling, another glass?”

—Which meant he could get drunk, apparently.

Andor had had two glasses, yet seemed unaffected, and Anya hadn’t touched her glass. Mot hadn’t, either. The wine of Vatredas was nothing like Urulu. In Urulu, they actually grew the grapes, water pumped out of rivers and ancient caves, the sun ripening the grapes wonderfully. This wine, however, he could almost taste the magic used to make the grapes overgrow, the fermentation to speed. Sure, it might not have required any chemical agents, but half of a good wine (in Mot’s opinion at least) was how ancient it was.

This wine, though? Bitter and strange tasting, with a strange metallic aftertaste. He dipped his finger into the wine, able to see a few golden specks on his hands. Magic, most certainly. Hell, it almost tasted spoiled, somehow, even though he had bought it just a week before.

Andor, however, certainly didn’t seem to mind. He poured himself a third glass, all the way to the top. Good gods.

“As I was saying,” Andor said, “I don’t know how the multiverse works. I think only Ianite does, but I come from another land. A place called Ruxomar, and a place that was once known as the kingdom of Dagrun. I was a prince there.”

“And I a god,” Dianite slurred.

“Yes,” Andor said, “He was Dianite. But. The multiverse is vast and never ending, I can understand if you’re confused— honestly. I still am. I like to think of it as a table covered with grains of rice, and each grain is like another universe— there is some space between, though… I’m not making sense.”

Anya looked awkwardly at her glass of wine.

“It does make… some sense.” She looks at the wine. “You know, I had a friend that worked in the vineyards. Making the grapes overgrow. Said that every day, deer came to the fields, shrouded in mist… never mind. That makes some sense. Why you act so different, reference things that aren’t here…”

Mot looks at Andor. His wings are still up, stretched high and proud.

“Yeah.”

Anya leans forward, wiping some dirt from her face.

“So Inertia. That’s a prison somewhere else. In this other universe… did your revolution work?”

Oh boy. Mot took a long drink of the shitty, shitty wine. Andor sighs, deep and heavy. He emptied the glass, then held it in his hands. He ran his hands over it. Behind him, his wings wriggled restlessly.

“No. It didn’t. I was imprisoned and the city was razed. I wanted to establish a democratic government, be rid of the monarchy once and for all!” He seemed triumphant for a second, then he softened, slumping forward a little. “Then I left. And nothing happened.”

One could have cut the silence at the table with a knife. Anya stared at him, confusion and worry on her face, and yet, she stayed silent. Mot was honestly expecting her to start talking, scathing him. Poor Andor. Sure, he had words, but what good were they if he had no clue what to do? Now he was all restless, and—

Anya shrieked. Mot whirled around, drawing his knife. There, right by the table, was an amorphous cloud of flower petals. It swirled violently around itself, a maelstrom of color. Pink, blue, purple, white. Then, it took form with a snap.

Tucker stood before them. He shook a few petals from his hair. Mot stood in shock, staring at Tucker.

“Tucker?”

“Tom’s hurt.”

Dianite stood, then stumbled back, spilling his wine on himself. Hurriedly, he stumbled over to Tucker.

“What happened?” He slurred, “What happened? What happened?”

Tucker looked at the floor, fiddling with the hem of his shirt.

“He fucked up, and got the Champion of Ianite to stab him.”

Dianite’s jaw dropped, brows furrowed, and Mot could see tears falling from his eyes. With a pained cry, he fell to his knees, burying his head in his hands. Mot rushed to his side, Andor shock still at the table.

“Tucker,” Andor said, stunned, “What the fuck is going on?”

Dianite looked up from his hands, sniffling.

“Since when do you curse?”

“Is that important? I’m a grown man. Come on. Tom’s hurt…” Andor looked small and helpless, wrapping himself in his wings.

Mot slowly sunk down by Dianite, softly trying to console him. Being human must’ve done something, made him more… sensitive emotionally. Or it was the wine. Drunk and crying on the floor. Oh, so much had changed.

“I have to go see him,” Dianite cried.

“You can’t walk like this—“

“I have to! I— I gotta go…”

Mot stared helplessly at Tucker, who just sort of stared at him, looking ashamed. He deserved it. Blindly followed a tyrant, dragged them from hell and back, and now look at them. A god, crying drunk on the ground. His god, his lord, his love.

“Tucker, can you teleport more than one person?”

Tucker shrugged, looking a little self conscious.

“I don’t know. I’m not that strong yet, I could try. Yeah, I’ll try.”

The petals on the ground started to swirl again.

“I’ll stay,” Andor said.

The petals rose in a tremendous gust, spiraling around Tucker. He reached out with both hands. Mot took one, Dianite took the other.

And the three of them disappeared in a fury of color.


	65. A Little Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom and Lev discuss their eventual trip to Kuljät.
> 
> Alternatively: Tom gets told repeatedly that he has to stay in bed. Yes, Tom, in bed. Stay put.

“What I’m saying is that we need to go as soon as we can.”

“And what I’m saying is that you’re fucking dumbass.”

Tom shut his eyes, then opened them again. Everything hurt and he was surprised he still was conscious. Especially after Ladia cleaned the wound with a bottle of vodka. Yet, he did trust her to bandage his wounds and not snitch on him to Celia.

“Leeeeeeev,” Tom whined, “Dianite’s trapped there. That’s what you said.”

Lev growled in frustration, hiding their head in their hands. Their own vines wrapped around their arms, like a child swaddling itself in a blanket or something.

“Yes, but we have to wait until he tells us to go, he tells us he’s ready.”

“Fuck no!” Tom snapped, then groaned with pain. His head howled at him, same with his chest and his knee, certainly… Ladia had cleaned him, then fucked off somewhere else.

“It’s a treacherous journey,” Lev explained, “I’ve never been to Kuljät. I don’t know what it’s like.”

With a boom, Gijsbert slammed his book shut. Tom flinched, hand going to his knife.

“Fuck, man! You gave me a heart attack!”

Gijsbert chuckled, then stood, stretching his back at an angle that looked a little painful.

“Well, I apologize. But I admit, I do love Kuljät. Not born there, nor raised there, but I’ve been many times… oh. It’s a gorgeous city. Snow falls every day, coating the world in silver wonder—“

Tom glared at him. “Listen here, Jizz-Berr—“

“It’s Gijsbert.”

“Whatever. What does that have to do with Dianite?”

Gijsbert tilted his head, brow furrowing. Then he started to… do a little dance, almost. Step, step, the sound of his boot heel dragging along the floor. Then, it was more clacking than anything, rhythmic and quick, his arms moving in a strange, graceful way. Jeez, what was this guy on? No wonder Tucker liked him so much— a crazy ass, just like. Well. Someone! Because there had to be a reason Tucker liked him! Tom shut his eyes, following him by the noise alone, until Lev gasped.

Only then did Tom open his eyes and before him, floating midair, the scene of a city. Like the wall had been blasted off to reveal a new city horizon. As for his train of thought, it ran in circles on the phrase ‘holy shit, that’s insane.’

“Holy shit,” Tom said, “That’s insane!”

“That’s Kuljät,” Gijsbert corrected, sliding out from behind the new horizon.

“Just an illusion,” Lev corrected, again.

Regardless of what it was, Kuljät was just as Gijsbert had said— a gorgeous, silver wonder. There was an almost iced over port and even from the illusion Tom could see people walking out on the ice. Others, however, he saw lurking in back alleys and bare, scarred up people carrying knives. Just like him! In the blurry corner of the illusion, two people violently fought. The illusion shifted, hiding them. But there were people all through the cobbled streets, walking in spotty clumps, not like the massive crowds in Vatredas. The snow could’ve been gunpowder, the whole town a powder keg ready to blow.

“That place looks fuckin’ awesome!” He exclaimed, “A real glow-up from the humdrum of Vatredas!”

“I’d hardly call it a humdrum,” Lev grumbled.

“Well I would! Nothing’s happened.”

“Thomas,” Lev said, the plants in their skin standing to attention, “You literally just got— uh. Close to death!”

“Which is why neither of you are leaving,” Ladia’s voice decreed. She stepped through the illusion and it dissipated around her in a cloud of mist.

“And what did I say about magic?”

Gijsbert shrugged.

“Thought you didn’t mind illusions. It is beautiful, though. I would love to go again…”

“Neither of you can leave. As much as I abhor Celia and her actions as champion, she has the support of the people in this city. They are Ianitees, and will listen to her. Don’t you agree?”

Tom looked over to where Gijsbert was, only to see, well. Nothing.

“Is uh. Is he chill?”

Ladia rubbed her temples.

“He’s facetious, prideful and too smart for his own good.”

“Is that a yes?” Lev asked.

Ladia shrugged, then kneeled by Tom’s bedside, looking at the bandages on his chest. He’d been picking at them, alright, and he silently prayed to Dianite that she couldn’t tell.

“This is the second time I’ve had to patch you up. I think some.. payment is due.”

“Like what. You wanna fuck?”

Ladia’s face fell and she sighed deeply, the long suffering sigh of a woman who had been through too much shit.

“Never mind. We can talk later. Get rest.”

Tom furrowed his brows, then cringed when that hurt his head. Jeez. How long would he be in bed, healing? He was Dianite’s champion, he couldn’t be in bed forever!

As Ladia stood and left the room, Tom touched his side, where the brand was. Lotus and knife. This is bullshit.

“This is bullshit,” he whined. But he laid back, relaxing, and tried to rest.


	66. Another Recording

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaines continues to make his way towards Cypra. He is met with something quite different.

{RECORDING BEGINS}

Gaines: I’ve been traveling a while. A young woman in a cart took me a few miles, before stopping at a small village. Funny enough, there hardly seemed to be any people. The houses were all broken down and small, the fields barren. I touched the earth and it felt like dust, nothing but dust. The cart had food it delivered, grain and fruit and vegetables, along with a bit of meat. But I walked around the town a little. There were some people, all… thin. They told me that the crops had been failing for the longest time. So they get shipments from Vatredas. And now I’m walking through the forest, again. The cart went… I don’t know. However many miles from Vatredas?

Strangely enough, I can’t seem to find any of the old roads to Cypra. It seems as if they’ve been abandoned, which is concerning. Sure, Vatredas and Cypra were far apart, but they were always close trade partners.

[He sighs. A crunching noise.]

Gaines: The Forest seems to have changed. The plants look as if they’re all withered, and I don’t even hear birds chirping. I tried to pluck some berries from a bush and they crumbled into dust in my hands. Like the land of the village…

[A low, rumbling noise.]

Gaines: What is that? Hello? Anyone there?

[The crunching continues. A gasp, the rustling of plants. Heavy breathing. There is a clacking noise, then rapid clicking. A quiet noise.]

Gaines, whispered: What the fuck is that—

[An ear splitting roar. Gaines whimpers.]

Gaines, whispered: I’m seeing, I’m. Uh. A beast with the body of an insect— a spider, maybe, massive. The size of a horse. Body of a spider and the head of a lion, with massive teeth. And the head of a snake…

[More chittering and roaring, fading into the distance. The recording is silent for many minutes. Then, a slow, deep breath.]

Gaines: Something’s wrong. Something’s very, very wrong. What was that? What has happened while I was gone? Fuck, fuck it’s coming back—

{RECORDING ENDS}


	67. Homeward Bound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tucker gets Mot and Dianite to the Inn. They have a tearful reunion with Tom while Tucker scrapes himself off the floor.

The whole universe felt like it had bloomed, like a sea of petals was surrounding him. It was agonizing to push through all the heavy petals, all while making sure he left neither Mot or Dianite behind. And yet, he held that image in his head, of the Cinnamon Grove Inn, the room with all the beds, Tom—

He felt himself appear inside, feeling everything at once. The warm air, the floor under his feet, and by Mianite did he feel dizzy. Tucker collapsed to the floor, shaking, dry heaving. The floor was cold beneath him. His flesh felt too tight, as if his body didn’t belong there, which it sort of didn’t. He looked up and sighed with relief. Mot and Dianite were there too, looking just a little dazed.

Tom looked at the both of them. Tucker waved, then retched. Sonja walked into the room, Martha peeking up from where she was studying a now sleeping Wag.

“Hi,” Tucker said. Tom opened his eyes, looking curiously at them, until he realized who was there.

Mot finally seemed to regain his senses and rushed over to Tom’s bedside, Dianite stumbling after him. Mot collapsed by Tom, gathering him into his arms in a loose, gentle hug, wary of the bandages all around his chest, and the one on his knee.

“Mot? Hi, hey, it’s alright—“

“No it isn’t!” Mot snapped, “How did this happen?”

“Fucked with the wrong champion. Ianite’s. Her name is Celia, ya gotta be careful…”

“I have to be careful? You almost got yourself killed!”

Dianite set a large hand on Mot’s shoulder, trying to calm him a little.

“What he’s trying to say is that he cares, boyo. And this was sudden and scary for him. Right?”

Mot nodded, his eyes filled with tears that trickled down his mottled face.

“Martha,” Mot said, “Can’t you make a potion? Use something to heal him?”

Martha shook her head.

“I don’t feel confident enough in my magic to do something like that, I’m scared that I would make it worse. And I never really was a healer…” she gently carded her fingers through Wag’s hair. “…I don’t know.”

Mot looked at Tom’s knee, then back to Martha.

“What about potions?”

“I don’t have anything to make them. No netherwart or anything.”

Tom groaned, trying to pull Mot closer to him.

“Celia will hurt you, she’ll hurt you if she finds out about the Dianite stuff… there’s a portal, to uh. To the nether in a place called Kuljät. Dianite is trapped there, and Lev and I are gonna go save him—“

“Not with that knee!” Dianite shouted. He laughed a little, rubbing his face.

Goodness, he was crying. A god, crying. Not the first time he had seen it, but… Tucker stood, the floor swaying under his feet a little as he did so. He looked at Sonja and waved, stumbling over to an empty bed and flopping down. Oh, he’d teleported with two people. He did that! Without any help— Gijsbert would be so proud. And soon enough, this would all be behind them and they’d be home again. Home.

No more hurt, no more psychotic champions, no more shadows or any of that shit. Just the savanna, and the gods, and his Mianite.

Mot and Tom held one another, and Tucker laid down, trapped in memory.


	68. The People

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief look at the mind of a councilman.

A tall, pale man, thin as a pole, strolled the streets alone. Strands of his long brown hair fell in his face, having escaped the pale purple ribbon he tied it back with, yet he made no move to straighten it. The sky was nice and starry, like a tapestry of diamonds, dark and bedazzling, dimmer than the streetlights, but twice as beautiful. Mysterious. What secrets hid behind those stars? The same stars he had seen every single night, since he was a boy constantly vexed him, entranced him…

“Taylor Voxis! I see you, slow down,” a familiar voice called. Taylor stopped in his tracks and turned, forcing a smile on his face.

“Councilman Galatia,” Taylor greeted, waiting for the man to catch up to him. His cane gleamed in the streetlights and made a little clacking noise whenever it hit the cobbled streets. A short, dark skinned man with thick, gorgeous braids down to his waist limped his way, the clicking of his cane and the metal brace on his leg growing louder as he approached.

“Please, I’ve already told you to just call me Babajide. How would you feel if I called you ‘Councilman Voxis?’ Awkward, isn’t it. What’re you doing out so late?”

Taylor studied Babajide’s face, the slight wrinkles and faint glimmering of silver makeup on his eyes making him look a little older in the pale moonlight.

“Just was watching the happenings by the gate. The crowd dispersed. Celia—“

“—Will probably bring it up at tomorrow’s meeting. Not just the situation tonight, but the whole festering pot of malcontent out there, the meetings, the speakers…”

Taylor nodded. Ah, the speakers. The leaders. What they were doing was more influential than anything he’s ever done in his life, more wonderful and inspiring than the whole of his families legacy. He’d slunk through the slums outside of town, kept invisible because of his slouch and average clothes and found the bar by chance, and was struck dumb by her words. Anya couldn’t be regarded as anything but a true genius, a master wordsmith and well aware of it. She knew how to rile people, playing heartstrings like a violin. And while Andor buzzed with anger and restlessness, he couldn’t deny that he had a way with words, too.

He didn’t mean for it to change his life. Ideas of revolution, equality, freedom, filled his head no matter what he did. It also filled him with a great guilt to be an active participant in the system they rebelled against and yet not have the confidence to say anything on the council floor. They’d think he was young and stupid! No, they already thought he was young. They’d think he was stupid.

“Taylor,” Babajide said, “I asked what you thought of the situation outside.”

What he thought was that it was wrong, it was horrible, the people had all reason to revolt. Taylor took a deep, silent breath. Earlier in the night he had seen them running into the city. Anya stood tall as ever. Regal. Andor leaned heavily on her, a strange wound on his shoulder, staining that yellow cloak of his. Taylor almost left them. Instead, he extended a long arm, stared at Anya with his hazel eyes…

“The people have done this before. Risen up and tried to fight against the will of Ianite. But I don’t know what’s going on. There’s um. Not much I can say about it.”

Taylor felt nauseous. He sounded so much like his mother. Babajide looked at him, yet his old face was unreadable.

“I guess you’re right. The people are upset, so what. They own no land, they can’t vote, so it doesn’t affect us. They’ll harvest the crop, take what we pay them, this spark will die, and nothing will change. Is that what you believe?”

Taylor looked curiously at Babajide, not quite knowing what he was playing at.

“I think that it’s best we solve this without violence.”

Babajide hummed and nodded.

“It’ll be fun to see if they think that too.”

Taylor looked away. Babajide’s cane struck the cobbles loudly. For a few steps, they walked in silence.

“Think Celia will bring up the Ri’Gan family again?”

Babajide laughed. "Got wine on the mind?”

“With how the meeting tomorrow is going to go, yes. I think everyone would have wine on the mind, but I don’t want to invite trouble by buying the wrong wine.”

“Oh, I’m sure she’s over it by now,” Babajide said, giving Taylor a curious look. “She’s learned her lesson— the people care more about wine than supposed heretics.”

Taylor nodded.

“And in the end,” Babajide said, “The people always get their way.”

Taylor looked to the gate.

Out there, something was brewing. Something was blooming, like a great flower in the earth, the petals bright, the roots reaching and grabbing and pulling things in, growing into the walls of Vatredas and breaking them down, breaking them down.

Taylor bid Babajide goodnight, and walked home briskly, eyes never leaving the ground.


	69. Locket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jordan continues to battle his desire to serve Ianite and his desire to keep his friends close. Perhaps a compromise is in order.

Mot and Dianite left two hours later, promising to come back the next day. By that time, Sonja, Tucker, Martha, and Lev had fallen asleep on beds adjacent to Wag’s, and Ladia was talking to another person at the inn. So that left Tom alone. The only one awake in the room, staring vacantly at the knife in his lap. Jordan stood outside the door, occasionally peeking in to see the same sight each time. Tom, slumped in bed, covered in bandages, knee in some sort of splint. How did Celia find them? Jordan pulled his wings tightly around himself. What if it was his fault. She followed him, saw where he was looking… or she learned about Tom because of him.

His wings fluttered. When he had been branded, which felt like ages ago, the pain scorched and screamed through his body and he remembered howling for Tom, as if he could save him. Nothing could save him— he didn’t need saving. This was his choice, the loyalty he had promised Ianite for the rest of his days. Ianite, his constant, his Goddess, his compass. She had done so much for him in both universes, serving her now felt right. Obeying her will felt right.

Saving Tom felt right. Not just right, but good. He was a dirty-winged hero in those streets, Tom cradled in his arms close to his heart, and he was the man who slayed Furia again, he was something more than what he was. A sudden anxious thought struck him. What if Celia had seen him saving Tom and Lev?

Slowly, he stepped into the room. Tom perked up, looking at him with those dark eyes, a smile on his face.

“Jordan!” Tom crowed, then cringed at his own volume. “Jordan,” he repeated, quieter this time, “I thought you’d left!”

Jordan slowly walked over to his bed, as if caught in a trance.

“I’m about to,” he admitted, “I wanted to say goodbye, though.”

Tom’s face fell.

“You’re not staying?”

Jordan looked down at the floor. He’d tracked mud in.

“I have to go—“

“No you don’t,” Tom pleaded, sitting up painfully and leaning forward, “We finally are all together, we got Sonj back, and– come on man. Don’t leave. That’s stupid.”

Jordan huffed, looking at the floor, the blankets, the bandages– anywhere but Tom’s face. One look from him would make him stay, trap him by his side forever. There were worse fates.

“I have a duty to Ianite—“

“No you don’t,” Tom interrupted, “You don’t owe her anything. What happened in Ruxomar couldn’t have been prevented, it’s like— that universe was like uh. A house of cards in front of a drafty window, it was meant to collapse. And nothing could’ve stopped it, so I think that metaphor is worse than I thought it was…”

Jordan swallowed heavily. “I could’ve stopped it. I could’ve saved Ianite, or at least an Ianita.”

“No, no you really couldn’t. You’re not a God.” Tom looked down, hanging his head. “You’re not a God.”

Silence fell between them, yet they could still hear Sonja’s steady breaths.

“Tom, even if it couldn’t have been prevented, that…”

Jordan bit the inside of his lip. All the things he had done, it wasn’t enough. But he could’ve done more, right? There was a way out of everything, a solution where nobody got hurt, where everything went right. Yet everything he did, every goal he reached seemed to amount to nothing. Ruxomar was mangled and torn apart, consumed by the void, leaving only a question among the rubble. Now what? Repeat the pattern, but do it right this time. Even then he couldn’t fly. He gazed at Tom. Their eyes met. Maybe his wings were meant to be wrapped around him. Jordan raised his wings. Clouds of dirt and dust fell from the mangled, unkempt feathers. There were worse fates…

“You don’t have a duty to anyone, you’re your own man,” Tom whispered.

“Then why are you trying to make me stay?”

Tom paled, shrinking into himself.

“I- I’m not, I’m just telling you how much of an idiot you are.”

“No, I think you’re trying to get me to stay…”

“Why the fuck did you do it, then?”

Jordan started, eyes going wide. Tom cringed.

“Do what,” Jordan whispered, not sure what Tom was even talking about in the first place. Surprisingly, he laughed painfully, clutching his bandaged chest. Jordan flushed, confused and embarrassed Tom knew something he didn’t, but soon enough the laughter was gone, met with a raised eyebrow and Tom’s black eyes.

“Do what?” Jordan snapped.

Tom’s eyes swept up and down his body, as if they were back on the shores of the first world and they were searching for diamonds among cold, gray stone.

“I mean. You could’ve left us there, Lev and I. It was probably Ianite’s will to have us still be there, then have Celia come and kill us both. Right?”

Jordan studied the floorboards, cheeks flushed and wings pulled tight to his body.

“So,” Tom pushed, “Why did you carry me out?”

Jordan looked up, staring blankly at Tom. Oh.

“I- I… I’m leaving,” Jordan stammered, “And you— you can’t make me stay.”

“Bet,” Tom growled, a playful glint in his eyes. For a moment, Jordan could almost see himself marching over to the foot of the bed, sitting down, and…

Jordan turned on his heel and marched out of the room, back straight, like a sailor at attention.

———

Ianite. Ianite. Ianite. Ianite. Ianite. Ianite.

The persistent ache from kneeling so long hadn’t gotten any better. The cloying stench of incense made his head pound, but at least the shadow cast from Ianite’s statue made everything darker and more tolerable.

The incense smelled like lavender. Bundles of white clover laid at the base of the statue. Simple weeds at the feet of a goddess.

Back in Ruxomar, flowers grew all around. Especially once the taint subsided and Ianite returned, her mere presence making the world grow and flourish. Then he lost her, and lost Ruxomar. He lost all his progress, all his materials, the little life he had made for himself in Ruxomar. And even before that he lost Jerry’s tree, Ianite, Capsize. Maybe this would be the end of it. He would serve Ianite, save the universe, and not lose anything.

That included Tucker, Wag, Sonja, and Tom. There was a way he could keep all of them safe, keep them all close to him.

The events of tonight made him nervous. Or was it yesterday? He didn’t know what time it was, just that it was dark and smelled like lavender and he was in pain, body and wings aching terribly. His head felt empty, filled with humming shadows and the lull of ocean waves against a far away beach. What more was there to say. What more was there to do. He would serve Ianite. Save his friends. Lose nothing, keep everyone close to his heart. Even if that meant…

…well.

Jordan clasped his hands together, and started to pray.


	70. Linger In The Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something sleepless is stirring.

The night. Deep, inescapable darkness draped over the world like a burial shroud, heavy and uncaring of what lay under it. One by one, they all fell asleep. Celia carried Rha to bed, swaddled him in his wings until he fell asleep against her. Miles and miles away, Deviser had climbed high in the branches of an oak, tying himself to the trunk so he could sleep without falling. 

In Mot’s home, Andor twisted and turned with nightmares of falling. In another guest room Anya stared out of the window, solemn and speechless. Did they ever retrieve the body of the one Celia killed? There would be a funeral. Would they ever know who the victim was? Her restless thoughts rang heavy, but not as loud as Dianite’s sleep talking. Mot was dead asleep, but had he been awake he would have heard Dianite rambling senselessly about bones, Tom, and, strangely, a ring.

The Cinnamon Grove Inn was also full of sleeping people. Ladia, asleep in the attic, slept like a log, and downstairs Tom, Lev, Sonja, Tucker, Martha and Waglington all slept heavily. Only Tom dreamed and he dreamed of feathers and flowers, being carried through a garden.

But the library was sleepless. Gijsbert paced back and forth, glancing nervously at the cloak laid on the ground. He could. He--- 

That voice he had heard, that impossibility. It wasn’t real, it couldn’t be real. He’d seen, he’d seen—

Gijsbert stared at the cloak. With a shaky breath, he slowly walked over to it. The floorboards creaked under his feet. He grabbed the cloak and pulled.

There was a bag over his head. It could’ve been anyone.

The charred black circle was gone. Not a speck of ash remained where he once sat.

There was a bag over his head.

Gijsbert looked down into the circle. He closed his eyes. He really needed to sleep. But how could he?

Something sleepless was stirring.

It could’ve been anyone.

———

Snow carelessly dropped onto the city of Kuljät. Howling winds pulled them into spiraling dances, laughing through the freezing air. Cracking ice and endless waves could be heard from the port. The sea, merciless, battered against anything it its path— natural or human made. Rats scurried between buildings and alleys in a search for non-existent scraps and crumbs. The night had blown in harsh and fast, sending all to bed at an early hour— even the most popular bar in town was empty save for a cadaver freezing by a heap of trash. 

That was the city. That’s not where she was heading.

Miles from the heart of Kuljät, a run down building groaned under the same snow. Inside, a heavy-set woman threw piles of paper into an unlit fireplace. She was panting frantically and shuddering from the freezing draft. With a thud and a cloud of ash, the last of the papers went into the fireplace, but she didn’t relax. 

Instead, she rushed out of the room. She ran through halls of glass cases holding strange objects, stumbling over piles of paper. With trembling hands, she pushed through a door. She shoved it shut behind her, looping heavy chains through iron hooks at the door frame, then sliding the many locks shut. Slowly, she inhaled

A putrid stench made her gag and cover her mouth. On the desk there was a cage— she looked closer. A white rabbit lay dead inside, its chest torn open and writhing with maggots and flies. Its open, yellow eyes glared at her. She threw it off the desk. It clattered and squelched on the ground. Underneath was a thin folder, bound in enchanted paper, the destination written in black ink. She took it in her large hands, heart pounding. Time was running out. 

A chill crawled up her spine.

Frantically, she tried to shove the papers into her pockets, hands shaking violently. Her breaths- harsh, gasping— made her head spin as she tried to get them to fit somewhere, anywhere…

A knock shattered the silence.

She held her breath.

Another knock. Another. Like freezing rain. Loud as her heart, which slammed against her ribs and tried to beat out of her chest, a prisoner on a sinking ship, screaming for release.

Silence once again. The door cracked open. And she heard the chains, the guard, slither out of the lock until it dangled cold and limp across the door like a noose. Her nose and eyes burned from the smell of rotting flesh and fur and ledger ink and the reek of her own sweat, heart pounding in her ears like the thing on the other side of the door was still knocking, knocking, cold fear surging through her veins, whole body shivering, shaking. The door. The chains. 

Slowly, she turned around. Like the hands on a clock, slowly approaching the last moment. Sweat poured down her forehead.

She faced the door. The chain was limp. As slow as a glacier, the door creaked open.

Her muscles clenched involuntarily, ready to run. Yet there was nowhere to run to. Her eyes widened, like a hare in the jaws of a fox.

Whispering. A hushed, silky tone, that made the whole room hum along with it. One voice. Then two. Three. Four five then six, dozens. Thousands. Piling up on her and breaking her mind, pulling like silk ribbon or like a sharpened knife through necrotic skin. Her lungs burned and fought against them. Millions of layered voices, a choir, a hellish cacophony, suffocating her. Smothering her. Her bones buzzed. Like they would shatter into nothing—

—Nothing. The voices faded away.

The nothing raised its hand, staring at her from the doorway.

“Shall we go on a walk?”

———

The last thing he expected was for the place to be on fire. And yet, here he was, standing before the burning husk of the building. Gijsbert sighed. Oh, how unlucky. Not even the sturdiest of the beams stood— all had succumbed to the fire. 

Gijsbert pouted at the fire. Oh, what rotten luck. Just as he had needed to talk to her. Great! Now the whole place had burned down. He shivered. Because of the cold.

...Because of the cold.

Gijsbert wiped his face, heart pounding.

Snow had started to lovingly smother the raging flames, disguising the smoke as another dark thread in the night. They would search the ruins in the morning. Best not look for a body. If there was one. He shuddered, stomach turning. He glanced over the burning wreck. Well. Might as well. 

He mumbled a spell under his breath and slipped into the burning ruins.

Where a chimney once stood a pile of smoldering bricks remained. At the base, singed papers. Carefully, he held his hands over them. With a glimmer of magic, they disappeared. He’d look over them later. Ash from standing beams covered him like snow. He coughed. Might as well lea—

His foot caught on something, sending him (with a pathetic yelp) into the snowy rubble. He sat up, brushing some of the snow and ash off of his robe, then looking at what had tripped him. His blood ran cold.

An iron rod, the size of his arm, perfectly straight. Looking closer at it, though, he could pick out intricate etchings of flying buzzards. With shaking hands, he reached out and grabbed it. The rod quivered with magic, then, slowly, started to dissolve, crumbling to sand in his grasp.

Terrified and pale, he stood and dragged his foot through the sand. Then with a spin, he vanished. 

———

Sonja woke as the sun rose. She sat up with a groan, looking around the room. There was Tucker. There was Tom and Wag— where was Jordan? She sighed. A puff of vapor came from her lips. The air had to be freezing…

Pulling the blanket off of her cot, she wrapped it around herself and walked to the window. The city looked so much prettier bathed under the warmth of golden sunrise, the streets already starting to fill with merchants and people. She smiled. Why would Tucker ever want to leave this place? Sure, it was nothing like Ruxomar, and even less like the first land, and yet it felt… warm. Bright. Anything was better than the darkness of the void. 

She would never go back, she decided. No more falling, no more shadows, no more darkness. This place wasn’t Ruxomar or the land before— which was a good thing. Maybe this time she could be something. Maybe this time she’d be the champion. Maybe…

Well. That was speculation. The only thing she was certain of was she would never go back. She would never forgive herself for leaving a world this bright.

The streets filled with merchants, and someone started to play flute.


	71. Penciling the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom and Lev sit around in the attic, waiting. So Tom draws, and draws, and tries to remember.

In the morning, Ladia showed Tom and Lev to the attic. Two beds were set up there, the dust in the air catching sunlight from the window. It was almost magical, like glow stone dust floating in the air, or lingering on clothes. Then Ladia shut the purple curtains, and the air was only dusty. Dusty and still.

That was three weeks ago.

Wait— No, that didn’t sound right…Tom looked at the calendar Ladia had given them. It told the days passing when the curtain-filtered sun couldn’t. Ah, he was wrong! Three weeks and two days had passed. Three whole weeks and two days where nothing could be done, and they couldn’t go to Kuljät and save Dianite, like they were supposed to do.

Three weeks and two days without Jordan visiting, or sending a letter, or anything.

Tucker, Wag and Sonja visited them almost every day, either climbing up the ladder to the attic, or teleporting in with a bunch of flower petals flying around. Tom couldn’t help but smile like an idiot when they came to visit. Sonja alive, Tucker salty as usual, Waglington smiling at him (and not even yawning anymore!) His Dianite and Mot brought him fudge one day.

And even Dianite (not Mot’s Dianite, the new Dianite. This worlds Dianite) came to visit and talked to him through the knife, and send warm, red magic to his knee. Healing went slow, and it ached when it rained. Martha and Ladia checked on his knee and his chest almost every day, making sure no infection was present, which there never was. And Lev was fine, too, just a tad bit overgrown.

But even then, Jordan was nowhere to be seen.

So Tom had tried to get his mind off of things. Get a hobby or something. Ladia gave him paper the first day in the attic so he could write notes and requests, but he found himself more interested in drawing. Simple doodles, little plans. Honestly, he wasn’t that good, but it still was fun. Then as time went on and release seemed less and less unlikely, he tried to complicate the drawings. Draw people, or cities, his dreams and hopes. Memories.

He’d drawn Gijsbert’s illusion of Kuljät. A shitty, shaky sketch, but it was one of his first. Then he drew Celia’s sword. The smoke over the wall. Then Mot, Urulu, the Kikoku, the Ianitas. Jordan’s bow, World Historian, Inertia, the Flyanite.

The North Star of his first home. A single piece of glow stone, hovering in the air.

A pathetic amount of those drawings were of Jordan. Jordan, wide eyed and covered in salt water, washed up on the beach. Jordan, sweaty and cursing as he tinkered with his reactor. Jordan, dirty winged and frightened as he carried him, as he held him, as he protected him.

Tom interrupted his own train of thought to ask Lev if they thought Jordan would ever visit. Lev, who had overgrown themself today in order to sit in front of the window as a houseplant, said nothing from behind the curtains. Tom almost wanted to check on them, but they’d probably just replaced their ears with plants or something stupid and magical. Maybe they were moping about Kuljät too. Tom looked at his knife, then his piles of papers.

While there were many drawings of Jordan, even more drawings were of Dianite. Not this world’s Dianite, but the first Dianite. But he never got far in them. He could remember the horns. The merciless hands. The voice that burned…

He drew a simple line. A cheek. No. He erased it. Were they…

**_You really shouldn’t dwell on the past,_**_ this worlds Dianite chided,_ **_I don’t know if you know this, but nostalgia means nothing. You have better things to do than draw a self-portrait. Again._**

“Not a self portrait,” Tom growled. The curtain shifted as Lev shrunk down, back into their mostly human form. They peaked out from behind the curtain. Without the bandages, Tom could clearly see the sunken, broken bones of their face, flowers and vines bursting from where their eyes should have been.

“Drawing again?” Lev asked.

Tom grunted, desperately scribbling and erasing.

“It does no good, being trapped in the mind. The man, er, God you are drawing is dead. Or you are him. Our lord was never clear to me on that.”

“Piss off, plant bitch,” Tom snapped. Lev raised an eyebrow at him. Tom ignored him and continued to draw. The hands of Dianite. His Dianite. He erased them. They were too small, they almost looked like his hands.

** _ He is dead. You should know, you killed him. Nostalgia is a saccharine killer. Stop this, let go. This is only a self portrait. This is only an outlet for your guilt. Nature has no room for guilt. Chaos has no room for guilt. Once I am free I will show you. _ **

“Get out of my head,” Tom growled. He glared daggers at the, uh, dagger, and continued drawing. Dianite, his Dianite, that temple in the flames of the Nether—

** _ You should see my prison. It’s flowers. Beauty. Nature. And you are a part of me too, a part of chaos and nature— another version of myself. You can feel it, can’t you? _ **

“Tom,” Lev said, “are you okay? You’re uh. You’re. You don’t look good.”

The pencil scratched across the page. Desperate, messy lines in a shape that was supposed to be familiar. Tom huffed in frustration. Come on, come on. Red skin. Horns. Red. Red…

** _ You poor thing. _ **

Tom wiped his face.

** _ He’s gone! But you know that. _ **

Red skin, horns, strong voice—

** _ You were the one who killed him. And now you are him. You can’t hold on, it’s not healthy. Thomas, you know I worry for you. _ **

All he could hear was the sound of his own breathing, and the songbird coo of Dianite’s voice. Not his Dia’s voice—

** _ Look at your drawing! _ **

Tom hiccuped, face wet. When had he started crying?

** _ Can’t you see it? _ **

The drawing. The body was there. The chest, the place where an arrow would go, the hands that looked too small, but—

** _ No eyes. No mouth. Ha. _ **

Tom stared emptily at the drawing.

You don’t remember his face, do you?

With a choked scream, Tom crumpled the paper. Hands shaking. He tore it in half, then quarters, eighths. No face. The face was missing. Missing from his memories. Missing. Gone. Gone. Gone—

“Thomas. Tom? Are you okay?”

Lev’s hands were on his shoulders, plants wrapped around his torso. They smelled like the earth.

Tom shoved them off, and grabbed his dagger. He wiped his face with his sleeve.

“I’m gonna. Uh. Sit by the window.” He sniffled.

“Ladia said—“

“Look, I don’t care!” He snapped. Lev flinched.

Tom stood, shouting in agony when he leaned on his bad knee. Grabbing the bed frame as support, he slowly limped towards the window. He lowered himself to the ground slowly. He pushed the curtain aside, and stared out at the city.

Out there, Celia was searching for him. To kill him, probably. Were there trials here? Or just killing? Honestly, just being killed sounded… better. No more dealing with argument or law, just running.

But how did he not remember his face? Dianite’s face. He knew the heat of his eyes, but not the shape of them. He knew the biting words, but not his teeth, his lips, his tongue. The memories were there, but faceless.

Tom touched the brand on his side, the lotus and the knife. And through the dirty glass of their sanctuary, their prison, everyone looked faceless. Maybe someone had forgotten all of their faces.

Tom inhaled— slow, and shaking— and drew a smiley face in the window’s grime.


	72. Birthright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _  
For transgender day of visibility 2020.  
_   


It had been three weeks since he had hid in Mots house, three weeks until they walked back out of the walls, and now they were back in Anyas house. Andor draped his cloak over his lap, and sewed with a needle and thread Anya gave him. The stitches were small and neat. Sewing always calmed him down, the rhythmic, tiny motions, the ability to undo any mistake…

“Where did you learn to sew?” Anya asked. Andor looked up from his sewing. Anya sat backwards in a chair, facing him.

“Oh, I made most of my own clothes as a kid.”

Anya tilted her head.

“Really? I thought you said you were a duke of something.”

Andor smiled, looking back to his cloak.

“I was a prince. But my dad uh. See, I wasn’t born as I am now.”

“Nor was I, I used to be a little baby.”

Andor flushed, needle slipping.

“Not what I meant, but—“

“So why sew your own clothes?”

Andor paused in his stitches. He looked up at Anya… he’d kept so much from her. What would one more secret mean?

“I… wasn’t born the way I am. I was. Uh. Born a man, but not my body?”

“You’re transgender?” Anya asked.

Andor nodded, a smile lighting his face. 

“Yeah! So my dad thought he had two daughters. When I was younger I really hated dresses and having my hair long. When I told my sister, Alva, how I felt, she said ‘then why not be a boy?’ And everything clicked. That night, I stole some thread and needles from my mother, and tried to sew myself a pair of pants out of my skirt.”

Anya laughed, snorting as she did so.

“Really?”

“It looked like shit!” Andor exclaimed.

Anya shook her head.

“I’m sure you looked dashing.”

“My father didn’t think so at first. He was really angry until my sister explained how I felt… next thing I knew, my auntie Martha was dropping off a bunch of potions, and I sat next to her for sewing lessons. Then my mom cut my hair, and my dad and I went hunting.”

Andor sighed at the memory. He had been too little to use the bow Helgrind used, but he had a tiny crossbow. They didn’t get a single thing. But afterwards, they went to the dock and threw a boomerang, watching it soar high, then come back down. They talked. They talked so much, and Andor explained himself, how he felt for the past ten years of his life. Of course, he was only 11, there wasn’t much outside of that.

And now where was his father. On the roof of the nether— no. He probably had died. All those terrible things he had done were juxtaposed with the good in Andor’s mind. The man who cut his wings was the same who hugged him on the dock. The voice that sent him to Inertia, the voice that said ‘I’m proud of you, my son,’ for the very first time.

Anya smiled.

“I used to go hunting with my parents all the time,” she said, “we used to go out into the forest, and kill rabbits or squirrels, brought them back and made stew. I do assume, though, that you got better? At sewing, I mean.”

Andor looked at the cloak, the neat stitches, the embroidery… And the torn places, from Celia’s sword. Even then, it could be fixed, though it would never be the same.

“Yeah. I’ve gotten better.”


End file.
